Duel in the Desert, by Bleys
by Byakushin
Summary: Nattick, a human rogue, is sent to the bustling desert city of Drakhiya to assassinate an elven ambassador before a dangerous alliance is finalized. Meanwhile, Mara is hot on his trail to eliminate him first... Intense "cunning orcs vs. elves" faction battle and intrigue, does not require prior game knowledge to enjoy! (Anniversary story contest winner, FFnetized with permission.)
1. A job in Drakhiya

_Editor's Note: This story, which won the Ancient Anguish story contest in 2002, has been ported to FFnet with the permission of the original author, Brandon Brooks (couldn't talk him into signing up himself). He retains full copyright of this story. The story is completed, I just need a while to port the entire thing over here._

_Ancient Anguish is a text-based fantasy game, much like a vast interactive novel, and the areas and factions described here all exist in it. The game has been around since 1992 and is still going strong. If you wish to try it out, there is a link on the profile page - it is player-owned and free to play. Give me a holler if you come by!_

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**Duel in the Desert, by Bleys**

Ah, Drakhiya. City of stone walls and sand floors, where abound such exotic delicacies as a pomegranate tart or a jug of that bitter licorice alcohol, arak. There was also rat-on-a-stick, for more orcish tastes. Wandering around the city's streets by day to take in the marvelous architecture and statuary would be sure to lead to sweaty undergarments and dusty, dirty skin. This would only make for good reason to then delight in the unparalleled ecstasy of the famous Drakhiya baths, where the hot steamy water seems to have an enchanting ability to wash one clean of even the foulest stink and grime. (Although a certain unfortunate dwarf was unable to remove the stench of the infamous resident bog monster, even after repeated scrubbings, and futilely demanded his coins back.)

It was Festival time, the Feast of the Prophet, in the grand city of Drakhiya, jewel in the eye of Drakh the All-Knowing, an occasion that occurred once every year in the month of Waterhaze. The Festival lasted a fortnight and was an unusual time in this usually elf-intolerant city, when members of all races and classes and guilds were allowed into the city's walls to partake in the events. The Caliphs had always been praised for their seeming benevolence at tolerating all humanoids and guilds at this special time. The harsh reality of it all was that they appreciated the profits and attention the Festival brought to their beloved city, and not a few of the city's rulers had been able to refuse the sweet tastes of fine elvish baking.

The night-time air above the city was once again rife with noise and excitement from the celebrations below, as well as hazy grey and black smoke from the pyrotechnic displays put on by commissioned mages of the conjuration school. This year the theme of the fiery displays in the sky seemed to be one of wonder, as most of the images portrayed in the night sky were of mystical dragons and fierce ogres, and the occasional beast that nobody seemed to recognize. Ishtaq the famous juggler was conspicuously absent, given his nefarious history with the current Caliph, yet many other street performers could be seen at one busy corner of the city, performing their legerdemain with all-new twists, never failing to enliven the crowd with their mastery. A group of runty dwarven ex-Knights performed impromptu skits full of slapstick and bawdy comedy to the delight of many in the crowd, especially the Scythers present.

The normally wide and spacious avenues of Drakhiya were now thronged with humans and humanoids from all reaches of the land, and larger-than-life constructs of paper and glue depicting grinning visages and figures from mythical lore either adorned the backs of Festival-goers or dotted the streets and corners at regular intervals. Trailing some of the adventurers were beasts of burden of many shapes and sizes, from shifty-eyed ravens perched on shoulders to intelligent wolves with huge maws to lumbering, vacant-eyed undead that added a haunting presence to the otherwise cheerful gathering. Outside of the city walls one would expect so many of those pressed closely together here to be locked in combat. Yet a curious atmosphere of tolerance seemed to drape the masses like a curtain, made no less impenetrable by the numerous swarthy orcish cityguards and serpentari militiamen dotting the streets and parapets.

One particular traveler who made his way through the masses filling the streets had less-than-tolerable notions in mind. In fact, he was not here at all for the Feast. This was merely a convenient milieu in which he could work his dark tasks. Purses for cutting and jewelry for nicking were there by the dozen to be had, and thieve he did with thoughtless ease in this carefree crowd. But such aspects of roguishness did not give Nattick the same thrill they once did, and they were not his primary reason for being in Drakhiya at Festival time.

Comely wenches tried in vain to attract the thin rogue's attentions as he slowly strolled by the inns and taverns they frequented. Nattick was a handsome human, thin and wiry of stature, normally with a full head of hair that sprouted long dark locks, some of which hung over his face, shielding his eyes at times. For traveling incognito, however, his hair was pressed close to his scalp under a close-cropped blonde wig. He was shorter than most human males, at a hand under four cubits tall, and he possessed a quickness that even some elves would envy. He had a thin, aquiline nose and his high cheekbones and the slight upward curve to his dark eyes gave his face a constant look of intensity and alertness.

Nattick was disguised in the finest nobleman's garb, as he was here in Drakhiya posing as an ambassador from Tantallon, and this was another reason the harlots were eager for him to look their way. He had donned a hooded light grey cloak, the hood currently flipped back, over a handsomely polished leather breastplate. A golden chain around his waist served as a belt and where it buckled in the front it bore the insignia of the Town Council of Tantallon. High black leather boots that softened his step (and augmented his quickness, due to their enchantments) adorned his feet, the left one concealing a wickedly sharp knife that Nattick used in combat. A sheathed bastard sword hung at his side, and he bore several 'official' rings of command on his fingers. He could scarcely wait to shed his disguise and get down to business, but he knew that would have to wait until tomorrow.

As he toyed with a ring bearing a green gem set into an intricately worked band, his eyes idly surveying the curves of the tawdry women lining the street, he mulled over events from the past few days in his mind and coldly considered his objectives in the city of Drakhiya...

'I'll get right to it, Nattick. We admire your work,' Balfor had said, the cunning Scyther sprawling out across from the rogue in their booth. It was one of the few times Nattick had seen him relax his guard, indicating that the Scythe leader trusted him implicitly.

The two Scythers were in a back corner of the bar in Hobbitat, well away from prying eyes and unwanted personages, secure in one of its many private booths.

Peering through the drawn curtain of the booth, Balfor silently motioned for the hobbit waitress, a cutely smiling female with curly brown hair, to bring them another round of imported Raveli rum.

'Thank you, bloodbrother,' Nattick replied simply in turn, nodding briefly to his superior. 'What is it you would have me do this time?'

Balfor grinned slightly and stared at Nattick for a moment, admiring his always-intense gaze and somewhat fearing him. Nattick was a true find, one he was glad to have on his side, and he hoped his loyalties to the Scythe would never sway. He quickly sat forward, thrusting his face across the table at the rogue. 'Halforc and the others have spoken. The elf bastard must be brought down. He is getting brazen in his actions against us and we can no longer afford to let him live. There is some sort of connection between Duender and that strange tower in the desert.' Balfor paused for effect. 'We think a war is brewing.' He sat back, gazing expectantly at the Scythe's prized assassin.

Votishal. He had to be talking about the elven ambassador from Duender that was recently organizing some sort of movement against the Scythe clan. The elf and human inhabitants of this despicable city to the west were now focusing their efforts on curbing his own guild's power. The creation of the Elven Defense Force was probably but the beginning of the reprisal from Duender and its resident guild, the Eldar, and this Votishal was somehow at the center of it. Eliminating Votishal would do much to hinder their designs, and nothing could please Nattick more than to drive his knife into the back of some grove-tending elf. This would also make him shine in the eyes of his leaders, most notably Halforc.

The Crystal Monolith, now that was something else entirely. He had heard of no one who had been able to penetrate its mysteries since it first appeared in the deserts far to the south, near Drakhiya, about 3 months ago. Nattick had heard shades of rumors from travelers of far lands that similar towers had appeared mysteriously there, always right before something terrible happened. But how exactly was Votishal involved? He knew Balfor was being cagey again, and that trying to get any more information out of him than given would be no easier than getting the Bard of Nepeth to sing. Perhaps Balfor did not know, either...

Nattick narrowed his eyes slightly and stared thoughtfully back at Balfor. Just then the curtain parted and the beaming waitress appeared with their rum, as well as another rack of roast rabbit, which she placed before them and vanished, silver coins pressed into her tiny hand by the rogue. Nattick grabbed the pewter mug of rum and took a swig of it, buying himself some time to think. Balfor simply grinned back at him and hungrily tore into a leg of rabbit, waiting patiently for Nattick's consent, confident he would have it.

Nattick had seen this Votishal a time or two in the past. He had been a fighter of some renown and was said to be deadly in combat, and he carried the prized two-handed sword, Elvenheart. This would be no easy mark, but Nattick was not about taking the easy way out, and he relished the chance to gain favor with his leaders. The fact that Votishal was an elf made the offer all but impossible to refuse.

'So you are finally going to give me the chance to silence this sniveling elf. I accept. Only tell me where and when this needs to be done.' Nattick's eyes had a cold intensity in them now, causing Balfor to blink before speaking.

'The Feast of the Prophet is taking place in Drakhiya in a few days, as you well know. The chaos that normally reigns in that city during this time will be the perfect setting for you. Votishal will be there, no doubt with some of his company in tow, for the trade conference. So be ready for that. But we know he is really going there for something more. See that he meets a brutal end, and investigate the tower and his connections to it. I'll begin getting the guild ready for any surprises on this end.' Balfor looked thoughtful for a moment. 'You have never disappointed us, Nattick, and the way you carry out your job always makes for good stories. You know Boki is looking forward to hearing about this one. He always gets a good laugh out of your killing.' Balfor smirked back at the rogue, his mouth now full of rabbit.

Nattick laughed. The gigantic ogre that was their mascot did take a liking to him, and seemed to hang on his every word as he recounted how he had taken down his last mark. More than a few times, Nattick would have to stop in the middle of the story to explain certain words to the ogre, and he had to wonder if even his entire brain was made of muscle, too.

'I'll leave before dawn and head south, then. I want to be sure I know this city well before the Feast starts. You'll have your proof in a fortnight.' The rogue now grinned darkly back at Balfor, who half-stood and lurched over the tabletop to give him an enthusiastic headbutt. The drinks spilled and the entire booth shook, but the Scythers just laughed.


	2. Flying daggers

_Editor's Note: Story copyright Brandon Brooks, all rights reserved._

Mara half-hid her face in a tankard of the local Drakh swill, gazing disdainfully above the rim at a room full of sweaty, stinking humans, orcs and dwarves. She slowly drank from the mug, cradling it in her small, elven hands, with her feet kicked up in the chair across the table from her. All of these brawny, unwashed brutes could do was revel in their filth and idiocy, and the only reason they tolerated her presence was because it was Festival time in Drakhiya. The only reason she tolerated them was for her damnable loyalty to Illarin and her people, the Eldar.

Most of them had not even noticed her slide in to the bar and seat herself in the corner, for Mara was among the most skilled of rogues. To look at her, she seemed nothing more than a small child, and her fine features and slender, pointed ears belied the fact that she was in fact a most accomplished hunter and killer. Eyes of the richest green were set in a plain face of childlike naivete, with red-golden strands of hair falling all about to her shoulders. The upward tilt to the corners of her eyes gave her elven heritage away, as did her ears, and she did nothing to hide these features. She had clothed herself as would a well-to-do merchant with simple jewelry and no visible weaponry, but a leather garter held a couple of deadly throwing knives within easy reach. A razor sharp stiletto was carefully tucked away up one sleeve, and a sheathed scimitar hung by her side.

Growing bored of staring at the louts in the inn, her eyes darted to look through the window out onto the Street of Snakes. The street outside was packed from end to end with excited revelers and merchants, and the serpentari militia's presence was hard to miss. Forked tongue flickering wildly, one particular militiaman had his hands full as he jabbed his glaive into the backside of a forlorn-looking orc, apparently caught pick-pocketing or performing some other mischief. Slowly the serpentari herded him up the street, inevitably towards the dungeon in the Palace, Mara thought to herself idly.

A tall human bedecked in a jester's outfit began gathering a crowd around him a little further down the street. He held three long-bladed knives in one hand and three potatoes in his other hand, apparently preparing to not only juggle them but somehow dice the potatoes in mid-air. His dark eyes glittered with greed and mirth, and Mara could just make out one of the jester's accomplices working his way through the crowd, searching for fat purses waiting to be cut. She chuckled dryly to herself.

A rather self-important looking nobleman momentarily blocked her view of the juggling display, as he made his way up the street with a small retinue of fawning prostitutes. Mara found it amazing how these fops all looked the same, no matter how hard they tried to outdo one another with their garish outfits and jewelry. And yet, there was something quite different about this particular aristocrat.

Her blood raced as she locked eyes with her quarry, a wiry human Scyther she had traveled many stadia to neutralize. Ordinarily his disguise would have fooled even her, but that intense glimmer in his eyes was unmistakable. He did not notice her gaze, however, for he seemed to be idly scanning the street as he strolled by, barely succeeding in his attempts to thwart the advances of two orcish wenches. As he passed by out of sight on the other side of the street, she contemplated the dreaded Scythe assassin, and knew fear for the first time in many months.

Illarin had been most pressing on the point that the Scythe clan was probably going to send someone to spy on Votishal - or worse, assassinate him. One of their lower-ranking members had been caught in the Defense Force camp. Illarin and her lieutenants had learned a few things about their potential subterfuge with her scrying magics on the hapless orc before he was turned into fodder for the guard dogs. Mara was Illarin's answer to any Scythe threat in this situation, and even Votishal did not know of her presence. She was to ghost him in the city and on his trip to the foreboding crystal tower in the desert.

But Nattick. She should hope to be asked to return with Razar the Greater Demon's horns than to face this formidable rogue. None but the most informed and powerful of assassins even knew his name, and none wished to ever have to confront him. He was simply too good at what he did, and he was always three steps ahead of his prey and his pursuers. In fact, Mara thought to herself gloomily, he probably already knew she was after him and where she was staying, and - Heavens! - what color shift she was wearing, even though his stare had simply washed over her a moment before.

Mara blushed slightly at this last thought, and her darkening mood lifted considerably when she saw that a game of dagger toss was taking place at the other end of the bar. Her dealings with Nattick could wait a bit longer.

Made popular in the Scythe camp, these little booths had begun popping up all over the land. Perhaps she wasn't as infamous as Nattick and his talents for murder, but she was widely revered for her proficiency at throwing knives. The fact that money was changing hands steeled her resolve to play even more.

'Watch this, Gnorl,' a burly, vaguely handsome orc said, his lips curled into an arrogant sneer as he readied a throwing dagger. Across from him in the booth, about 10 ells away, stood an effigy of the itinerant sage, Gaius.

'Thwack!' the dagger sounded as it bit deeply into the dummy's forehead, right between the eyes. A round of drunken cheers went up from the crowd around him, now watching the local palace guard do what he did best.

Nobody seemed to notice the small merchant looking on from the periphery, arms crossed under her breasts, a bemused grin on her face.

'Bet you can't hit him in the head five times running, Gryg,' the orc called Gnorl said, plopping down several gold coins in front of him on the table. The crowd broke into excited murmurs. Few were able to hit called shots with these unbalanced knives with that amount of regularity, and the escalating bets were making for a great game of dagger toss, indeed.

Gryg grunted and said, 'So you'll be buying my drinks and wenches for the Festival then, you flower-sniffing fairy!' He let another dagger fly, and this one bit home right in one of the cheeks of the mannequin. The crowd of drunks and Festival-goers erupted in laughter, and still no one noticed the elf, or the fire in her jade eyes.

Gnorl began to pale and sweat visibly as each proceeding dagger was driven home by Gryg's sure swing until all 5 dotted the face of the sage's burlap-and-hay doppelganger. Taking a large swig of Gnorl's beer and then taking his coins, Gryg winked at his dejected friend and then turned to the applauding crowd. 'Who wants to help get Gryg a new steed?'

As Gryg leered into the crowd, the serpentari bartender was hurriedly setting up another effigy of Gaius. The popularity of the widely-hated sage's effigy was unparalleled, no doubt due to his often vexing and enigmatic advice, as folk rarely threw daggers at effigies of King Drin or Ewani anymore.

'I'll fancy your wager, orc,' Mara said confidently over the murmurs of the crowd, now enthralled with the drama at the dagger toss booth. She strode boldly forward, the throng parting to let her into the playing area surrounding the booth. The bar's patrons gawked at her and some sniggered, for her small stature and trader's garb belied her dead-on accuracy and cunning as a rogue assassin. When she reached the burly orc, she grinned placidly at him, and met his arrogant smirk without flinching.

'A hundred gold coins says I can best your marksmanship with 5 daggers, and I'll do it while blindfolded,' she declared, so matter-of-factly that the now-silent crowd didn't know whether to burst out laughing or to believe her. To look in her eyes, one could not help but accept her words as truth.

Gryg was only thinking of how he was going to spend his new fortune, for there was no way this elf could beat him at his own game - in his own backyard, no less.

'Fine, elfie, you're on, but let me see this gold first cuz I don't wanna hafta eat you when you lose. Would be a waste of fine flesh!' he barked out, laughing as he placed a large sack of coins onto the table. Gnorl began to look a little concerned.

Mara reached into a belt pouch and placed her stakes on the table, next to Gryg's, and for the first time the orc got a glimpse of the scimitar that hung at her side in its scabbard. No elf merchant would carry such a blade around that did not know how to use it, and Gryg frowned at her slightly.

The serpentari barkeep lithely worked his way to Mara and handed her a square of something that felt as if it was made from the hide of a giant snake, and the elf rogue neatly folded the cool skin in her hands. Taking one measured glance at the stupidly grinning visage of Gaius, she quietly wrapped the blindfold around her eyes, and then held out a steady hand for her daggers. The barkeep hurriedly placed the knives into her grasp and Mara fingered them deftly, taking the first one up in her left hand, her throwing hand.

Absorbing energy from the engrossed crowd around her and feeding off of the gamesmanship from her orc rival, Mara focused her mind fully on the image of the target in her mind. With a wry smirk she decided to show off a little bit, and with that she let the first dagger fly.

The first dagger found purchase in the right knee of Gaius, and Mara proclaimed, 'That is so you cannot follow me all over this land to pester me!' A nervous giggle ran through the crowd. Gryg merely raised an eyebrow.

Next the rogue held up two daggers in her left hand, the points of each between her thumb and first two fingers, and she hurled them simultaneously. They bit home in each of the dummy's two eyes. Shouts of amazement went up from some in the crowd, and some started to applaud excitedly.

'Those are to keep you from seeing me as I rob your house!' The crowd laughed in approval, and they were now becoming hers.

Her fourth throw came quickly, her entire body a blur as she threw a knife into Gaius' mouth, and she said, 'That's so I don't have to listen to your meaningless drivel anymore!' Even Gnorl began to smirk a little at that, but Gryg's brow furrowed deeper.

Mara held the fifth and final dagger up and twirled it about her fingers, grinning as she spoke, 'And this, this shall be to pay you back for the humiliation you cause by making me look daft!' The last dagger caught the effigy in the middle and to the side, exactly where the stitching of the dummy's robe met, causing the robe to drop away, leaving Gaius 'naked' in bare straw. The bar erupted in cheers and applause, the crowd now ten-deep and into the streets as curious passers-by began to gather outside of the packed taverna.

Mara flipped off the blindfold and admired her handiwork, five daggers precisely placed where she had envisioned them. She smiled sweetly up at Gryg, who was now looking as if he had left the slave pen doors open and the slaves unfettered back home. The crowd pressed in around her, some slapping her on the back and others offering to buy her a drink, as she gathered up her bounty and graciously accepted the praise.

As Gryg pondered some form of retribution against the merchant, who was obviously more than she had seemed, he absently felt for the remainder of his coins, tucked away inside his tunic, only to find they were gone. As he looked down in shock at the cut drawstrings of the satchel inside his vest that contained all of his previous winnings, he noticed that his favorite ring was missing too!

Filled with rage, he looked up again and glanced about fiercely for the little rogue, only to see nothing but smiling and laughing tourists and patrons. Effectively pinned deep in the bar by the crowd, Gryg sullenly snatched Gnorl's remaining ale from him and swigged it down.

Outside, strolling casually down the street towards the Avenue of Sand and breathing in the fresh nighttime air, Mara twirled the orc's big ring around one of her fingers and smiled. Her good luck at the game was a positive sign, and she'd take it, given the formidable task of tracking down Nattick and confronting him if necessary. But that was tomorrow's work, for tonight she would enjoy spending Gryg's money in the welcoming steam baths of Drakhiya.


	3. A quiet observer

_Editor's Note: Story copyright Brandon Brooks, all rights reserved._

Sunrise came early at this time of year over the Gates of Dawn of the grand city of Drakhiya, called Drakh by those who knew her streets and alleyways well. The wondrous and exotic carvings adorning the eastern gates seemed somehow alive in the light of the intense sun, with mythical creatures of the light dancing about the rim and an odd-looking dragon with a platypus bill clutching a sunburst at their crest. Buzzards nesting on the city's parapets and rooftops took flight, in search of their daily prey, while numerous bats now slumbered in the safety of the city's many chimneys and overhangs.

Already the many wide streets were clogged with merchants and patrons alike, for it was the second day of the Prophet's Feast, and the first day of the trade conference. Booths displaying all manner of cuisine, crafts, weapons, armour, and clothing were in business again, and this was looking to be one of the most successful Festivals in recent memory.

A couple of stories above the streets of Drakh and their hubbub, a dark-haired rogue idly gazed down at the activity. He squatted comfortably on top of the balustrade outside of the inn's second floor, the flowing cloak about his body slowly turning the color of the dusty tan and grey of the building behind him. Rendered effectively invisible by his magical cloak and his own fluid motions, he stood and gracefully spun around on the railing, and leapt to catch the rim of the inn's roof. Nattick deftly pulled himself onto the rooftop and started at a moderate trot towards the opposite edge, the rooftops of the embassy district beckoning to him. He would have elf blood today, and he could wait no longer to satiate his thirst for it.

Back on the streets below, one of several horseorc guards, mounted atop a hardy black steed, directed a small cadre of orc laborers as they busily prepared for the mid-week parade. The battle-worn orc waved his falchion dogmatically, its steel glinting in the morning sun, to direct the sweaty orcs as they placed lanterns and fliers, while others laid out thin rope barricades to separate the streets from the sidewalks. The orc workers did their best to not interfere with the merchants or their customers, yet the muscular horseorc seemed to enjoy being disruptive.

One azhad merchant cursed the mounted guard angrily as his careless cantering about had toppled over a stand of pomegranates and driven away a customer. 'Stupid horseorcs! Always showing up at the wrong time!' The orc guard merely sneered in satisfaction and drove his workers further up the street, making them toil at a frantic pace.

Further in toward the city's hub the trade conferences were already underway, in the embassy buildings just north of the Palace of Drakhiya. The Caliph himself was there to preside over the conference and was accompanied by his trusted Wazir, a serpentari high priest named Yassar. The serpentari's eyes glittered with greed at the day's prospects, for he always fared well in bartering with representatives from the other cities. Not only did Drakhiya always seem to come out ahead in the trade dealings with Yassar at the reins, but the city always managed to turn a huge profit from the taxes on the sales in the many booths and inns and brothels during Festival time.

In a building adjacent to the one currently occupied by the Caliph, a bored-looking elf sat at a fine walnut table across from a small group of avaricious hobbits. He was dressed in silks of blue and green, and his rings and silver headband identified him as an ambassador from the fair city of Duender, home to the Eldar. His right hand rested on the pommel of a great two-handed sword which hung at his side, and his left hand propped up his chin. He attempted to keep from falling asleep while the hobbits droned on about how the people of Duender needed to drink more Hobbitat Firebreathers.

Votishal lacked the handsomeness of most elves, but eyes of blue steel and straight black hair pulled into a small ponytail gave him a serious look. He nodded absently to the Hobbitat ambassadors periodically, only able to keep his eyes open from extensive military training at the hands of Arehtama in the Elven Defense Force compounds.

'Gods,' the fighter thought to himself, 'these furtive hobbits would try the patience of even Namril!' Votishal was not an ambassador by trade, but was rather in Drakhiya at this time as part of a carefully calculated move on the part of the Eldar. He merely tolerated the day-to-day dealings of the trade conference to keep up his facade.

The elf absently fingered the pouch at his belt, which contained a cylinder of crystal to be delivered a few days hence to the leader of the enigmatic monolith in the desert a bit further to the south. What it contained, he did not know, nor did he care for he could tell from the look in Illarin's eyes that he would be facing battle soon. He had longed to wield Elvenheart again in order to cleave some Scythe skulls. She had all but guaranteed him that with her quiet but meaningful stares, and he yearned to have the clan's taint cleared from the lands for good.

Sitting at Votishal's left and staring fixedly at the cunning hobbits was a towering half-orc. He was a rarity among rarities, a humanoid with orcish blood that was tolerated by the people of Duender, for he was raised by them. His mother was a human Eldar that was brutally raped by a band of marauding orcs that had ambushed their city long ago, leaving Stobb behind as a physical legacy. She died of the plague soon after his birth and, his father unknown to him, he had been raised by elves and human and their kin in the city of Duender and its surrounding forests. They treated him humanely, but more out of a sense of responsibility than love, and kept him at a distance, secretly ashamed of his heritage. He did not wear the silver headband of the Eldar, yet his lifelong loyalty to them had been unfaltering. He had gone out on dozens of sorties with the Eldar patrols to put down the seemingly endless bands of orc marauders that harried the landscape.

For now Stobb was being used as an escort for Votishal, acting as the ambassador's bodyguard while here at the conference, and his intimidating presence did much to back the ambitious hobbits off from many of their schemes to sell more Hobbitat chattel.

'...so you can see, kind sirs, how the new mint Hobbitat truffles will be sure to delight the tastes of even your most discerning Elfin ladies, as our test markets in lands to the east have shown, so if you will just sign here we will mark our next imported case just for you...' one of the hobbits went on, and when he ran out of breath one of the others next to him would pick up the pitch flawlessly. This was not the first time this crew had worked together, and their technique worked almost without fail. Even Votishal began to show a glimmer of interest.

But just then Stobb grunted disinterestedly, leaning back in his chair and staring at his fingernails. The hobbits gave a start, then changed tactics in mid-stream, noticing the pair's reticence and attempting to divert their attention with a display of fine Hobbitat compasses, determined not to come away empty.

A bemused grin cracked his face as Nattick watched the bored elf and his large companion through a window. He lay on his stomach on a flat stone roof across from the embassy, atop one of the city's many tavernas, judging from the licorice smell of arak wafting up from below. He waited patiently for the conversation to end, knowing soon he was to find out the real reason Votishal was here. Languidly, he wondered how much the elf's blade would fetch on the open market.

Deciding he had heard enough, Votishal stood up and thrust out his hand for the hobbits to shake. Instead, one of them grabbed it and kissed it, and the elf laughed heartily. His jaded exterior had accidentally given the Eldar the upper hand in their negotiations with these shrewd hobbits, a position not often gained by even the sharpest traders. He glanced over some documents outlining the new deals and trade routes between the two cities, found them favorable, and signed them quickly.

As he pressed the signet of his ring into the hot wax sealing the papers, Votishal shot a glance to the half-orc and said, 'Stobb, be a good fellow and see that these fine merchants from Hobbitat enjoy the rest of their day here in Drakhiya.'

The huge half-breed simply grunted and took a few gold coins out of his money pouch and sprinkled them into the eagerly awaiting paws of the hobbits, who bowed their way shamelessly out of the room.

Votishal giggled merrily at the smirking half-orc as the pair headed back to their quarters in the Palace. There, Votishal would reveal to Stobb and the rest of his party their real motivation for traveling to the Feast. He would then make arrangements to head for the crystal spire beckoning in the desert to solidify the pact between his guild and the Consortium. A morning of successful trading behind, the elf started to feel better about the unpredictable encounter ahead of him, and once again his hand strayed to the pommel of his prized sword.

Outside and across from the window of the now empty trading room, the dry desert wind blew tiny dust devils in the sand on the rooftop where Nattick lay just moments before.


	4. Treacherous footing

_Editor's Note: Story copyright Brandon Brooks, all rights reserved._

'I will dine with you shortly, and then I must be off to meet our new allies. Expect battle soon, my brothers and sisters, and wait in the city for my return,' their leader commanded.

'We shall do as you say, my lord,' one of the group said, a young half-elven man. Though dressed as an attendant, he was wearing fine quality silk garb, as were the rest of the entourage accompanying Votishal on his mission to Drakhiya. The small mix of men and women from Duender were hand-picked by the fighter, and like him they were not really tradesmen but warriors. For now they were being sent out into the city to keep the Eldar presence visible, even while Votishal prepared for his sojourn to the strange tower in the south.

As the contingent left through the archway and out into the hall, a passing orc palace guard leered at them, visibly fighting to maintain self-control. The elves and humans from Duender ignored the scornful guard icily and proceeded to the city streets outside.

All that remained in the lush guest chamber were Votishal and his henchman, Stobb, who casually leaned against a column by the entryway. A corrupt grin slowly crept across the half-orc's face as he beheld the elf in silence. Stobb would finally begin to have his freedom from the lifelong oppression of the Eldar guild's constant silent judgement of him. Sick of their disdain, pity and shame, he found it fitting that Votishal's cleaved skull would be the first of many more to come. His hand went to the haft of his great two-handed axe and brushed against his tunic, where it concealed the mark of the Scythe clan.

As the elf buckled on a glittering breastplate made of a strange metal, the half-orc glanced sharply into the shadows cast by the noonday sun in the back of the room. There the lissome form of a human rogue stood, standing taut and silent behind a column near the elf. Stobb grinned to himself, deciding not to steal Nattick's thunder as he recognized the shadowy outline of his rogue friend.

'Votishal,' the half-orc said quietly.

'What is it, Stobb?' the elf replied, busily donning a light desert robe over his armour.

'Things look pretty good for us now, don't they?' Stobb gazed intently at his charge, studying his expressions.

The elf grinned confidently. 'A great war is brewing, and one that we are sure to win. The key to what happens next lies in that tower. When it is done, the land will belong to us again, it's rightful caretakers. Much Scythe blood will be shed, and soon!' Votishal stared defiantly, caught up in his pride.

'Did I not mention? I was never on your side, you puny elf,' Stobb said ominously.

The elf merely stared at him confusingly, his jaw hanging open and his eyebrows raised. 'Stobb, wha-'

In a blur Nattick leapt out from behind the column, driving the point of his wickedly sharp knife home in between the unaware elf's ribs. Votishal cried out in pain as he was wounded deeply. Acting out of rigid discipline, the fighter somersaulted forward and came up on his feet facing his opponent. He winced in pain as he slowly unsheathed the large blade at his side, blood welling down his backside from the deep wound.

The rogue threw back the hood of his cloak and snarled defiantly at the elf, and with lightning quickness he yanked his prized sword from its scabbard. Nattick twirled the knife in his left hand as he beckoned to the fighter with his sword, its finely-welded blade glinting in the light.

As Votishal slowly brought the point of Elvenheart up in front of him, he became enveloped in a glowing blue light, and new energies wafted over him, diminishing the pain from the stabbing. He stared balefully at the assassin before him, noticing that he seemed to somehow blend in with the background even as he moved. The bastard was wearing Arehtama's cloak, and this made Votishal feel at once angered and threatened.

The two circled each other slowly and menacingly, as Stobb quietly placed a folding screen across the room's lone entryway, exchanging a meaningful glance with the palace guard outside.

'I don't know what the hell is going on here, but both of your scalps will adorn the palisade back in camp!' Votishal shouted angrily at the rogue, eyeing Stobb warily and readying for an attack from both. The half-orc now merely sat cross-legged in front of the screen, his large axe strapped to his back. He stared back at the elf immovably.

The rogue feinted a time or two, making the bloodthirsty elf flinch and leap forward each time, but he proved to have excellent balance, almost as good as Nattick's. Finally Votishal let out a cry and

charged straight at the rogue, who met the downward slice of the elf's massive sword with his own in a speedy parry.

Quickly, Nattick spun around and to the right of the charging elf, his knife slicing quickly across the fighter's outstretched right arm, leaving a thin red ribbon of blood in its path.

Not letting the sneaky human get behind him a second time, Votishal quickly righted himself and bore down upon the rogue again, this time weaving the large sword quickly and in a complicated attack. The elf demonstrated an uncanny agility with a blade that was seemingly too large for him, and instead of slowing him down it appeared to give him strength.

Nattick had no choice but to steadily parry the fighter's exacting thrusts and slashes, only his expert command of the sword and dagger keeping him alive. The flickering blue light around the elf proved somewhat distracting to the rogue, and he tried to counter this by spinning his knife, attempting to divert the fighter's eyes for just a second.

Nattick slowly gave ground to Votishal, who was trying to work him into a corner. He had fought such experienced fighters before, and knew he had to keep moving and parrying lest he be hacked to pieces if cornered.

Seizing a rare opportunity, Nattick batted the elf's two-handed sword away as he feinted with it, and sliced open a gash on the fighter's left leg. Nattick had managed to sustain only a few cuts and nicks from the point of the large blade as he swept by the fighter, and his opponent was now visibly bleeding from several large cuts.

Votishal screamed in rage, and with one hand he picked up a metal brazier and hurled it at the rogue with astonishing strength. Nattick had to duck and barely missed being struck upon the head by the iron brazier, which whizzed past and clanged into the wall behind him. Embers spilled forth from the top of the brazier in an orange flurry, clattering about harmlessly on the stone floor.

The elf was upon him again with renewed fury and with a quick, circular motion he managed to disarm Nattick, sending his sword flying well behind and to the left of him.

Hastily, Nattick snatched up one of the many throw pillows lying about and tossed it straight at the fighter. Votishal brought Elvenheart slicing down, cleaving the pillow in mid-air, sending goose feathers flying and falling about like a thick snow.

Votishal grinned triumphantly and loosed a wicked cut with his blade right at Nattick's head, who dropped into a crouch, artfully dodging the swing and executing a perfect foot sweep. He knocked the fighter to his feet before him.

Moving so fast even Stobb's rapt stare could not catch it fully, Nattick produced two hunga-mungas from within his tunic and hurled them at Votishal's fallen form. They both plunged deep into the elf's abdomen, producing a meaty sound as they bit deeply into his unguarded flesh. Greenish ooze seeped from the wounds and Votishal clutched at them feebly, the poison spreading through his veins like liquid fire.

As Elvenheart fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor beside him, the blue glow abruptly winked out of existence, and the elf groaned. The last of the feathers slowly settled to the ground beside him, landing in a growing pool of the elf's tainted blood.

Ignoring Nattick and glaring up at Stobb, who now stood over him, Votishal spat. 'You have betrayed us, half-breed, proving you are no better than the orc scum that gave you life. You will not live much longer than I.'

'Maybe not,' Stobb replied, 'but I have found true brotherhood, something your people could never give.' The half-orc grinned evilly at Votishal as he stood and raised his tunic, revealing the steely mark of the Scythe burned into his flesh.

'No...' Votishal gasped as he died, his eyes and face now glassy with the shock of betrayal and death.

Stobb simply spat upon the ground, and Nattick had already begun rifling through Votishal's garments, his bastard sword again hanging at his side in its sheath. Elvenheart was also sheathed and on the rogue's back. Stobb shook his head slowly in bewilderment, feeling slightly uneasy at how quickly and effortlessly the rogue moved without detection.

'Well done, Stobb, you'd make Boki proud.' Nattick said as he continued to search through the slain elf's belongings. He cast a sideways glance at the half-orc and smirked, 'And thanks for letting me do him alone. I've wanted that scalp for some time.' In a flash the rogue had the elf's scalp in his hands, and it was easy to see that Nattick had scalped many a corpse before this one.

Stobb grinned back at the rogue. 'You know, Nattick, I'm one of few who can look you in the eye. You're so damned creepy, half the guild is afraid of you. Besides, all I care about is finally being able to go to camp. I'm sick of the Eldar and their stinking teas.' The half-orc spat into his hands and then began to straighten up the room. 'The blood and feathers won't be a problem, but what do you want me to do with this?' Stobb said, nudging Votishal's corpse with the toe of his boot.

Nattick looked up and paused thoughtfully as he stared at the fallen elf. 'Isn't the kitchen right around the corner?'

Stobb frowned for a moment and said, 'Well, yeah, but-'

'Use that axe of yours and give something to the cook to make for these nice Eldar folk when they return. You know they can't resist the Drakh spices, and why not let them share in our tradition of dining upon corpses?' Nattick gave the half-orc a depraved grin.

Stobb threw back his head and laughed, twirling a silver headband around one finger. He hefted the limp form of the elf over his shoulder and disappeared through the doorway, the screen that was blocking it now moved aside.

Meanwhile, Nattick read with alacrity a scroll he had found tucked away in a crystal tube, concealed within a pouch of the fighter's belt:

Z

Have your Consortium ready by the last day of the Feast. We will drive the barbarian Scythe guild

down to you first so that you may 'dispose' of them as you had proposed. We shall clean the filth

from Drakhiya at the same time.

Remember: You are not to harm or banish any of the human folk associated with the Eldar, as per our original agreement. They will know of your magics and will assist in the cleansing.

I have sent Votishal to you to act as your lieutenant. You will find his thirst for Scythe and orc blood unparalleled.

I

Nattick frowned. Consortium? Cleansing? Whatever the Eldar and the mysterious denizens of the monolith were up to, it did not bode well at all for the future of the Scythe. It appeared this Consortium might have something against humans, as well. Balfor had been right, Duender was up to something, but what had that bastard gotten him into this time? He did not like the sound of this 'Z' with whom the 'I', most likely Illarin, was communicating. Of all of his marks, the toughest had always been magic users, and only powerful magics could enable the construction of a tower made of diamond. Nattick shivered.

Yet his thrill for a challenge egged him on, and he would be sure to extract at least double payment from Balfor when all of this was settled. The rogue quickly swallowed his fear and began to relish the idea of taking out yet another garlic-eating mage.

Just then Stobb reappeared from the kitchens, gnawing on some mysterious meat that had been skewered upon a stick. Nattick rolled his eyes disapprovingly at the half-orc and said, 'The cooks down here use too much rodent for my liking.'

Stobb shrugged and said, 'What do we do now?' He touched Nattick's Scythe mark and paled visibly as he transferred his own strength and energy into his bloodbrother. Stobb wilted just a little as the rogue's cuts healed almost completely, and the thin human nodded at him in appreciation.

Nattick pressed the cylinder containing the cryptic message into Stobb's hands. 'I need to get to that tower. Go to the captain in the Dalairi embassy, have him take you to Akul. Give him this, and make sure he gets word to Boki and the others. They are about to be ambushed, and we need them down here as soon as possible. Until then, lie low. There is no telling how soon the other Eldar in Votishal's party will discover that he is missing.'

The half-orc snickered. 'Or that they've just had him for dinner.'

Nattick grinned at his bloodbrother as he backed away, melting into the shadows. 'In a few weeks, when this is finished, I'll take you into the frozen wastes to visit the northern orcs. The women are lonely up there!'

Stobb chuckled as he set about cleaning up all traces of battle in the Eldar suite. Before he could turn around his rogue friend was out the window and gone.

Much later in the evening, following a delightfully spicy dinner of exotic meats, every last member of the Eldar contingency spent hour after hour hunched over the chamber pot, retching horribly. None of the elves knew exactly what the meat was, but somewhere outside the palace's rear gate, smoking her pipe of tabaq, an orc cook who knew cackled evilly.


	5. Recruits

_Editor's Note: Story copyright Brandon Brooks, all rights reserved._

A huge ogre squinted in the brilliant light from the noonday sun, which was just peeking out from behind a cloud. The ogre was trying to stay focused on the activities taking place in the camp. All around him, orcs, humans, dwarves and half-orcs scurried about in various military-style drills, their ranking Scythe taskmasters pushing them even harder than usual. Seeing such a monster in the midst of so many humanoids and yet not attacking them was an oddity itself, but an ogre holding a clipboard instead of a club was inconceivable.

Yet to know the Scythe clan was to know Boki, for the ogre had been their mascot for as long as anyone had known. In charge of recruitment for the guild, Boki did much for their morale during Halforc's frequent extended absences. Presently, the ogre was preparing his charges for battle, and he knew that while Nattick was in Drakhiya he would either start a war himself, or be there for the dawn of one.

Off to Boki's right, one orc lieutenant led a group of Scythers on an obstacle course. At the moment they were in the 'Underwater Tactics' portion of their training. The grinning orc was urinating into the camp pond, and as a few of the grunts raised their eyebrows in confusion, a thick, blackish-green tentacle lashed out from below the pond's surface, dragging two recruits screaming into its depths! A moment later they reappeared, struggling mightily against the underwater horror's grasp. Stalwartly they wrestled free and made it to the other side of the pond, glaring at their superior yet also looking more confident than before.

The lieutenant gave them a curt nod, and then turned on the remaining members of the crew with a fierce glare. 'Jump in, you pukes! Me got no piss left.'

The ragtag Scythers leapt into the pond with a fierce battlecry, and Boki chuckled to himself. 'Fleeyp gonna be hungry today if dey all this tough.'

The ogre checked off a few things on his chart, which contained only pictures and no words, and looked to his left. The games area had been converted into a marksmanship improvement course, where Scythe forces, from bottle collectors to idol figures, honed their skills with thrown weapons and the bow and arrow. Boki frowned as he saw one frustrated-looking recruit molding a voodoo doll into the likeness of her commander, and the ogre flung a rock at her. The projectile struck home right between her eyes and she looked up in shock, blood trickling into her eyes and down her face.

'Throw like dat and den you can make dolls!' the ogre growled at her. The frustrated rookie spat blood onto the ground and smirked at Boki, then fell back into her training.

At the eastern perimeter of the camp and imperceptible to anyone's vision, a dusky elf crept silently along the inside of the palisade. His outline was blurred with that of the trees and logs of the wall surrounding him. The noiseless figure of the elf paused momentarily as if regarding the goings-on in the camp, and then skulked quickly out into the forest.

About twenty percha in front of Boki, near the western edge of the camp, a long line of Scythers in full armour waited to climb a rope ladder. From there, they proceeded hand-over-hand across a set of monkey bars about two paces above the ground, where an energetic, squat little man darted about. He was wearing an absurd set of wooden armour banded with iron, and wielding a ten-foot long pole with a hook at its farthest end.

With this armament he constantly harassed the soldiers on the bars above him until they either fell or reached the end, wherein they dropped down into a makeshift pit of sand. Uttering unintelligible shrieks and grunts and nonsensical phrases, the shifty-eyed human moved about quite rapidly and always in a crouched position. Not only did he succeed in clouting many of the trainees down from the bars but he bested every one in combat until they were either forced outside of the pit or knocked unconscious. From there, an attending cleric would revive them, give them a bit of gory stew, and then send them on their way to the next station.

'You filthy little mangoes! I kill you all! Diiiieeee!' the slavering little man shouted at a wide-eyed dwarf as he fell hard to the ground, knocked free from the bars. In a dizzying blur the pole-wielding

maniac descended upon the dwarf, who was barely able to get to his feet and wield his club in time enough to deflect a blow aimed at his temple. He admirably fended off the first few thrusts of the pole with the wicked hook but inevitably the strange human's energy and speed proved too much for him. Taking the blunt end of the pole in his chin, the dwarf let out a weak grunt and his eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped to the ground unconscious.

Almost instantly, wooden armour creaking loudly, the tireless little man whirled about and rushed at the next climber, screaming, 'I'll show you fuzzy kiwis something! Furry, vulgar little bastards! Yeaaagggh!' Rather than laugh at his absurdities, the Scythers climbing their way along merely blanched, at once fearing and respecting this mysterious and nigh-invincible psychopath.

Boki chuckled in satisfaction, causing the ground around him to shake slightly. 'Psaico push hard but dey know how to take beating when he done,' he muttered to himself. As the ogre tried to ponder why exactly it was the little stooping human hated fruit so much, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and his stomach turned.

All of a sudden, one of the Scythe's top sorcerers, Akul, appeared in a puff of smoke at Boki's side. The tall human with the pointed beard grinned and slapped the huge ogre reassuringly on his back, knowing how much he hated magic and surprises.

'Dammit Akul, why always gotta mark me?! Mark a damn tree!' Boki complained, as he recovered from the dramatic effects of the mage's impromptu arrival.

'Sorry, Boki, but this is urgent. I've got news from Drakhiya, and Balfor and the others better hear this, too,' Akul said, as he dusted off his long grey robes and boots, made dirty from his recent desert travels. His face was tan from the desert sun and his dark eyes flashed with seriousness. He seemed to have traveled lightly, with an empty wineskin slung across one shoulder and an ancient blue spellbook hanging from his belt.

Boki grunted hastily and motioned for Akul to follow him. The two Scythe elite ran further north into camp, heading for an exceptionally large and stout oak tree. The brutish ogre waded straight into the mobs of recruits spread out all over the camp, clearing a wide swath through which Akul hastily followed.

As they neared the base of the tree, a rather imposing figure came into view. Standing nearly two ells tall was a foul-tempered troll. He was wielding a huge halberd whose steel glinted in the sun. He gripped the haft of his weapon in one hand and was using the tip of the blade to clean his long, grimy nails. Likely he was cleaning out dried blood from the remains of the latest batch of elven recruits sent over by the Elven Defense Force, or EDF, to reconnoiter the Scythe camp.

Bokwa the Troll looked up from his idle task and grinned toothily at his long-time companion, Boki. Rows and rows of yellow, sharp fangs jutted out from within the troll's snout, and his orange-yellow eyes seemed to glow alight at the sight of the ogre. The two exchanged a vicious headbutt that would have slain most humanoids, but the troll and ogre simply bounced off each other and grunted in welcome.

'Bokwa, go watch training now, get Glumshakh to guard tree,' Boki told the troll, who nodded in obedience as he was handed the clipboard. Bokwa turned around and strode out from under the tree,

waving his halberd in the air a few times. A tough-looking orc wearing chainmail and hefting a large club came trotting quickly and took his post under the tree, as Bokwa disappeared amongst the crowd of Scythers to the south.

As Boki clambered up the rough handholds hacked out of the tree's trunk, the orcish guard gave Akul an expectant look.

The adept mage saw the orc's intent gaze and chuckled. 'Relax, bloodbrother, you'll be out bashing elf skulls again soon. No more boring guard duty. Trust me on this.'

The orc grimaced broadly and flexed his muscles, taking a few practice swings with his club at imaginary elves, and Akul was soon up the tree and gone behind the ogre.

A large and sturdy cabin rested atop a wide platform in the upper reaches of the oak tree. From the outside it was well-camouflaged and the lookout platforms all around it provided Scythe defenders with excellent opportunities to shower pitch and arrows down upon any parties foolish enough to try and invade the camp. Within the cabin there were two bars stocked with the clan's favorite drinks, from bottled beer to Polynesian Sunsets, and many comfortable benches lined the walls. A few trophies decorated the bar, but most of the finer ones were on display in the guild hall down below. One on display here was a black lace negligee once belonging to Queen Alisha herself, relieved from her ownership by one particularly enterprising Scythe rogue.

At the main bar sat two men, one of them hulking over the other one as he did most humanoids. This was Glock the Massacrator, perhaps the most widely feared orc warrior in the known realms. A living legend, Glock had slain thousands in battle, and his respect within the guild was second only to that afforded Halforc. Not known for his intellect, Glock did have an exceptional cunning when it came to battle tactics, and none yet had been able to match him in combat.

Balfor occupied the stool next to the gargantuan orc, and the two were reminiscing about old times when Boki and Akul strode into the cabin.

'... and then there was that time, when you went about killing all those paladin's horses, and piled up their embalmed corpses at the paperboy in town. Drin was livid that day!' Balfor cackled, and Glock

managed a wistful grin as he conjured up this memory. 'How much was that bounty our good King placed upon your head?'

Glock frowned and gazed up at the ceiling, with as thoughtful an expression as he could muster. 'Hmm, dunno, but remember him calling it off after I killed almost as many kniggets as horses!' Glock laughed heartily and Balfor clapped him on the back, laughing with him.

The few other idol figures present on the various benches laughed along, too, but they had been regarding Boki and the mage curiously since they strode into the cabin. As Boki finished slugging down an orcish banana brew, he pointed at Akul, who cleared his throat.

Glock and Balfor turned from their conversation at the bar, and nodded in greeting at their newly-arrived bloodbrothers.

The floor his now, Akul stated simply, 'There is a lot going on in the city of Drakhiya, and it's more than their annual Feast.' All of the Scythers in attendance were now listening to the mage intently, for the thought of impending battle had been on all of their minds lately. Not one of them hoped for anything less.

'It would seem that the Eldar are planning on picking a fight with us, and they don't intend to lose. This note I carry came from Votishal himself, soon after Nattick was done rearranging his face.' A few of the Scythers snickered at this, and one spat upon the ground at the mention of the troublesome elf from Duender.

Akul passed the note over to Balfor, who began to study it quietly, and he continued, 'There is a new faction to deal with, and it's whoever is in that crystal tower in the desert. They call themselves the 'Consortium' and from what that note says it looks like they and the Eldar mean to make us all extinct, as well as all the orcs.'

A low rumble escaped from Glock's throat, and several of the other Scythers began to get bloodthirsty looks in their eyes, especially the orcs present.

'This will obviously impact the other guilds, but it looks like they are targeting us and Drakhiya first,' Akul continued. 'They probably figure if they can get us out of the way, the rest will go easily. If that note is genuine, the Eldar want to drive us all south into some sort of trap. It looks like they have some plan that will either kill us or banish us or both. Either way, it doesn't sound good.'

'Then I say let's take the fight to them! Enough of this sitting around, sharpening our swords and picking our noses!' one defiant female Scyther said, a spellcaster from the looks of her.

'That might be no good,' Balfor put in. 'You can see they're already planning an ambush, and we might be headed right for it if we aren't careful. What else do we know of Illarin's plans, Akul?'

The mage only frowned and shrugged. 'I wish I knew. I didn't talk to Nattick myself. I only know that he killed Votishal. I do have a suggestion, though.'

'What you got, mage?' Boki asked.

'The Aalgirzsti. I know this isn't their fight but they've got to have a vested interest in this. We get them to ambush the Eldar before they get to us, then we team up and turn south to confront whatever is in that tower.'

Balfor exchanged a look with Glock, who merely raised an eyebrow in return. 'Are the tunnels even finished yet? I thought Katacom said it would be a few more months.'

'That was for all of the tunnels, and most of those are directed at Nepeth,' Akul went on. 'No, the tunnel leading to the west is complete, and has been for some time. I know the western orcs lust for battle, and they're getting tired of waiting for Drin to die or abdicate. What better time for them than now? These high-minded elves want to wipe us all out, and what good would that do the Aalgirzsti if they came storming over here only to find a bunch of flower-sniffing wussies?'

The Scythers in the cabin cackled gleefully, and Akul grinned back at them.

'This has possibilities, Akul. You'll have to do some fast talking. Can you reach the Tusked One now?' Balfor asked.

'I can but try.'

Akul looked around the cabin and crossed to the far wall. There, he proceeded to inscribe the outline of a wide and perfect circle with a piece of grey chalk he produced from within his robes. Into the outer rim of the circle he drew several arcane symbols, and when the design was complete he began to chant under his breath. His eyes rolled back into his head showing only the whites, and the mage hastened the tempo of his chanting until a softly glowing purple and black miasma of energy began to appear in the center of the circle. Slowly it widened and grew in intensity until the entirety of the inner circle was filled with a swirling grey mist.

Suddenly shapes began to emerge from the mist, and an exotic, walled city appeared, viewed from far above as if from a roc's eye. Towering, glistening white minarets with rounded, smooth tops rose from the center of the city, where what seemed to be a grand palace was built. Houses and buildings of white stone sprawled outward from the palace in a grand spiral, and as the view of the city became closer, many orcs could be seen traversing the streets and alleyways. One of the Scythers on the bench let out a low whistle.

Rapidly, the panorama centered in upon one of the minarets at the palace, and through a high window shaped like an upside-down spade, the visage of a tall, heavily-muscled orc became clear. He sat upon a throne that appeared to have been constructed largely of elf and faerie bones, and his most notable features were the large, yellowed tusks that jutted out from either side of his mouth.

He appeared to be holding court over some official-looking orcs, perhaps members of his aristocracy, when he held up a peremptory hand to the one he was speaking to, and gazed directly into the circle.

'Ah, our patrons to the east. An unexpected but welcome intrusion, my brothers and sisters. The Tusked One awaits your request.' The massive orc smiled smugly, and Akul breathed in sharply and snapped his eyes open. The magical link to the imperial orc in the far west established, he could now converse with the other side, as could anyone in the room. Most of the Scythers stared, jaws slightly agape, at the powerful magical display on the wall, never having seen its use before, and also never having seen the wondrous Aalgirzsti orcs or their city.

Akul bowed deeply in the direction of the orc called the Tusked One, who closed his eyes and nodded briefly in return. 'Tusked One, I know your people's needs are many and your resources are few, but we need your help immediately. We are about to be ambushed by the elves of Duender and some unknown force to the far south. If you strike now through your tunnels, you can help us push back this elf uprising and we can continue to help you build your precious network. If you cannot come to our aid, who is to say what will remain of the east when you arrive?' Akul kept a level tone and never broke eye contact with the orc, who simply stroked one of his tusks and appeared as though he were being offered fool's gold in return for his royal treasury.

The Tusked One grunted. 'Your clan is mighty indeed, Akul, and you have done much to help us. But it is planting time in the west, and many of my soldiers are away. Our fight is with the pigs that serve Drin, on his throne of conceit! I know not how I could get you the men you need for your fight.' The crafty orc appeared reluctant, negotiating as coldly with his allies as he would with his foes.

'But what about Halforc, is he not over there with you now?' Akul asked.

At that moment a flicker of doubt spread across the Tusked One's face, but it was gone before any of the Scythers could notice it. 'Halforc is here in the west, yes, but I do not think he is ready to return. The troops I have promised him are scattered,' he said, a little too matter-of-factly.

Balfor stood and addressed the visage of the imperial orc. 'Your Excellency, the orcs of Drakhiya are also going to be under attack. Though they are a mighty city they are in the middle of a festival, and none of them knows of the ambush, or what to make of this damned monolith in the desert.'

'Pah!' the Tusked One spat. 'Those sniveling desert orcs have made a treaty with Dalairi trash. I will not send even one goblin to help save the hides of fools that would ally with weaklings. Sorry, lords

of the Scythe, our alliance remains intact but you will have to fight this battle on your own. May Gruumsh smile upon you in your hour of need.' The large orc glared sternly back at the Scythe gathering, who sat in stunned silence.

Glock brought a meaty fist down onto the bar, sending splinters flying. 'Damn you, Tuskface, get off your scabby ass and fight with us!' the brutish orc snarled.

Balfor shook his head at the visage of the nervously laughing orc in the circle and spat. 'Forget it, Glock, he-'

Just then shouts and cries of alarm went up from all around the Scythe camp. The sounds of steel-tipped arrows whizzing by in the treetops could be heard from above, and wails of agony came from below.

Glumshakh appeared in the doorway of the cabin at nearly the instant the sounds of combat ensued. 'We're under attack! Illarin has brought her entire force here to die!'

'To battle!' shouted one of the Scythers in the cabin.

The Scythe elite let out fierce battlecries as they rushed out and down into the camp below, where the chaos of battle reigned.

In the now-empty cabin, the visage of the Tusked One watched the fleeing Scythers grimly as the magical energies holding the circle began to flicker and fade.


	6. Raid at the camp

_Editor's Note: Story copyright Brandon Brooks, all rights reserved._

Flaming arrows rained down upon the Scythe encampment as a large force of elves and humans and their kin from the city of Duender attacked. Some of the treetops within the camp were burning, but most of the huts and other structures seemed impervious to the fire.

Many of the Eldar were streaming towards the northern and eastern gates leading into the Scythe encampment, while many others were leaning wooden ladders up against the palisade. They were executing an organized ambush, although their orders were hard to discern over the fierce battlecries coming from the angry Scythers within. In the distance, behind the back ranks of the Eldar troops, an elven woman who rode atop a white horse commanded the attack. She had straight,

shoulder length jet black hair and a pale complexion, even for an elf. Her slanted, emerald green eyes seemed to glow supernaturally as she contemptibly regarded the Scythe camp. On the exterior she had an air of calm superiority, but within her fires raged as she yearned to be personally involved in the combat.

'We should not wait too long to get in there ourselves, Illarin. Don't underestimate the prowess of these brutes,' a sturdy elf atop a roan mare next to Illarin said. He had light green eyes that were a little bloodshot, and he too looked eager for battle.

The commander of the Elven Defense Force shot him a quick glance and smirked. 'Trust me, Annac, I know you want to get in there and run every last one of those savages through. We'll let Arehtama and his vanguard do their work and soften them up for us. They'll be no match for your steel and my magic.'

Annac grimaced at this last remark. His steel was no problem, for he was among the most skilled warriors with the longsword, and many sought him out for training and advice. What bothered him was the thought of Illarin wielding her powerful magics, for he had seen no foe able to withstand her brutal acid storms or lightning bolts, and something about mages always made him feel uneasy.

The Scythe lieutenants and generals worked furiously to organize their troops to face the onslaught, shouting orders to the hustling masses as they tried to switch from training to combat.

'Come on, you maggots, no time to lose!' one orc captain screamed at his charges.

'Grab whatever weapons you can and fight! I want elf guts for dinner!' Balfor yelled out as he leapt from the tree containing the Scythe headquarters. He tumbled forward expertly to break the fall and came up with his fine broadsword at the ready.

All around Balfor the Scythers were vigorously beating back the Eldar onslaught, some tipping over ladders, others mobbing the front ranks of elves and humans as they attempted to press into the camp. Not one member of his guild showed any traces of fear and this made him proud, but the ambush was a disciplined attack that came while his Scythers were in the middle of a fairly harsh training exercise. They appeared to be outnumbered at the moment, judging by the number of columns of attackers sprawling outside the camp. Bitterly, Balfor cursed the Tusked One and vowed to get more out of the canny monarch the next time they met.

Out of the corner of his eye a furtive movement caught his attention, and Balfor turned towards it. There, at the camp's east entrance, the Eldar forces seemed to be having their way with Scythers trying to fortify the gate. Occasionally one of his troops would cry out and slump forward as if struck from behind, yet Balfor could not make out the assailant. Suddenly, as if out of thin air, the visage of a tall elf with dark hair would appear behind one of the Scythers and stab him in the back. He would then pull the hood of his strangely patterned cloak over his head and all but vanish again, yet Balfor could now see the faint outline of his movements. Grinning furiously, the large human warrior strode directly toward the elf, not letting the faint outline out of his sight for one second.

In the north end of the camp, the Scythers were keeping most of the ladders down and fending off the onrush of Eldar for the moment. Burning pitch was being flung at the camp from the elven artillery units, but most of this was dispersed in the trees above, although occasionally some of it would boil down to scald orc and elf alike.

Suddenly, a blue bolt of lightning shot down from the cloudy sky above, shearing a great portion of the northern palisade. As the large wooden posts shattered into splinters, many of the Scythers went down in an explosion of splinters, and a throng of armoured elves began pushing their way through the large gap in the camp wall. Shouts of conquest went up from the Eldar ranks as the momentum began to turn in their favor, and the Scythers again held steady and did not panic. Far from the battlefield, Illarin smirked to herself, pleased with her summoning of the lightning and its effects. Annac shied away from the mage, trotting his horse forward a few steps.

The first few ranks of the armoured fighters to pierce the wall were mowed down by Scythe arrows and hurled axes and lit flasks of oil. But where they fell, more came through, stepping over the flaming and twitching corpses of their fellows and screaming for Scythe blood. The Scythe front began to break as it was now outflanked on the left side.

As the archers reloaded, the Eldar warriors charged after them screaming, and many of the Scythe troops abandoned their defense of the palisade to intercept the attack. Now more ladder tops appeared above the wall and the Eldar began climbing over as they continued to batter the northern gate, and the Scythe troops were on the verge of being outnumbered badly.

A line of Scythe fighters fought terrifically side by side as they fended off the advances of the Eldar troops at the east gate. Led by Psaico and his crazy utterances, their morale was at first iron-clad.

Though they outfought their opponents they were growing more and more spooked as one of their mates would mysteriously fall to an unseen assailant. Slowly the elves pressed into the camp from the east end, their confidence growing as the Scythers' waned.

A snarling half-orc fighter, bleeding from many cuts but fighting as if unhurt, handled the attack of a deft elf who was wielding a long and thin rapier. The orc's strength and determination began to wear down his foe, but just then behind him the air shimmered, like a pool of clear water through which a stone had been thrown. A sneering, dark-haired elf then appeared from within this disturbance, his gleaming dagger held high, set to thrust into the orc's back. The rapier-wielding elf smirked at this, knowing he would soon have this orc bested.

Just then, a large figure leapt out of nowhere and ripped the scintillating cloak off of the dark-haired elf's back, tossing it to the ground. The figure was none other than Balfor. Arehtama gasped in astonishment, utterly shocked at being discovered, and he fumbled for his falchion. As he attempted to unsheathe the weapon, Balfor slugged him hard across the jaw, stunning the elf and knocking him to the ground.

'Damn you, Arehtama, I thought Nattick had stolen that cloak of yours!' Balfor snarled at the reeling elf.

The fighting orc and elf had both stopped and turned, staring in awe at the scene behind them. Balfor headbutted the orc soldier and said, 'Finish him off, you fool!'

The orc grunted as he hefted his club again, beating down the shaken elf's defenses and moving in for the kill.

Balfor wheeled back around and saw that Arehtama had risen and was drawing his blade, and without his precious cloak, Balfor could see him easily now. The elf's dark green eyes held only hatred for the big human Scyther, and blood ran in a steady trickle from the right side of his mouth, now bruised and swollen. 'I had a better one made, you flea-infested oaf,' the elf growled back.

'Time to die,' Balfor spat ominously. He swung his broadsword at the devious elf's head, only to have it met by the falchion in mid-air. Backing away momentarily while fending off some wicked swings of Balfor's broadsword, Arehtama reached into his boot and produced a small dagger. Balfor pressed his attack and was obviously the strongest of the pair, but the elf was quicker and had mastered his blades, and the human could not yet penetrate his artful parrying.

Grinning, Arehtama began to score little cuts and punctures as his ripostes with the dagger cut through Balfor's defenses, but none of these seemed to faze the towering fighter. An even duel they fought and none of the other soldiers from either side dared to intervene.

To the north of this duel, the Eldar front gradually wore down the Scythe defense as they drove them backward further and further into the camp. Bokwa could be seen, his towering form easily visible over the elves that were half his size, his halberd flashing as he cut his own path through the advancing ranks. Glumshakh held his part of the line to the northeast, as every Eldar that came over the wall was systematically beaten down by the knot of troops he commanded. The battle-hungry orc leered with bloodlust, his face and club spattered with gore.

Boki had joined the fray, leaping out of the large oak tree and right into the middle of a squad of elven and human rangers. Eager to cut down one of the Scythe elite, they turned on the massive ogre and commanded their wolves to attack, while they readied their own weapons. Boki's face contorted into a maniacal grin and he let out a heinous battlecry, bringing his club down to bear on the canines leaping at him. One by one he smashed in their skulls, their shrill whimpers piercing the ears of their masters, their bites unable to do significant damage to the ogre's thick, scarred hide. As their wolves were being snuffed out the rangers began to circle the ogre, looking for their own chance to strike him down.

From above and behind the Scythe archers, a colossal orc came swinging down from out of a tree on a rope, and his battlecry was so loud and savage that more than a few of the Eldar dropped their weapons as their hands shot to their ears. Glock swung his awesome scythe in vicious arcs through the air, cleaving the heads of some surprised elves from their shoulders as he flew through their burgeoning ranks on his rope.

The presence of the legendary orc fighter boosted the morale of the dwindling Scythers immensely, and confusion and terror shot through the Eldar surrounding the orc. None wanted to face him, so Glock brought the fight to them. The blade of his massive scythe ignored all armour as it bit into the Eldar soldiers repeatedly, temporarily darkening the sky with their flesh.

A trumpet wailed a rallying call from behind the Eldar front ranks, as Annac was leading a charge of mounted elves and humans to reinforce the shaken vanguard. His timing perfect and his appetite for battle piqued, the EDF lieutenant pushed his cavalry into the Scythe camp, reinforcing his troops' superior numbers over the barbarians.

Both sides now fought with renewed vigor, neither willing to back down, and Annac drove his troops on towards the large orc wielding the scythe, anxious to test him in battle.

From a concealed tunnel and behind the advancing Eldar forces, a huge, intense looking orc in a set of armour constructed from bone emerged. He was hefting a thick iron shaft capped with blunt spikes in his right hand, and a few stalwart Scythers were at his back. He stared angrily at the chaos in his camp, the cries of battle reaching even his ears deep underground, from where he directed an ambitious quest to burrow from the camp to beneath the fair city of Nepeth.

Grishnok growled and said, 'Get to work boys. You know the drill: anything with pointy ears, or anything helping freaks with pointy ears, dies.'

The fresh Scythe blood let out ferocious cries of their own as they leapt into the fray. As many of the surprised and outflanked Eldar turned on their new foes, their eyes widened in shock and hatred at what they beheld.

'It's the slavers! Kill these orc scum above all else!' one of the mounted elves shouted.

As a phalanx of cavalry charged at Grishnok and his crew, the orc howled murderously and smashed the head of his mace into the head of a charging horse, drawing first blood. Slain instantly, the horse went down, legs jerking wildly, and its rider spilled forward onto the ground. A foul-smelling orc pounced upon the fallen paladin with a pair of filthy blades, carving the paladin's hide into pieces, and so the slavers began to dismantle the Eldar cavalry.

Steadily, the veteran Scythe fighters held off the cavalry and swarm of Eldar infantry, but were thus far unable to drive them back out of the camp. Glock was leaving a growing pile of Eldar corpses in his wake, while Boki and Bokwa were now toying with the cadre of rangers sent in on the ambush, whose canine companions now lay in broken and bloody heaps.

Sensing the stalemate and fearing greater than expected losses at the hands of the tenacious Scythers, Illarin decided to take things into her own hands. She galloped forth on her white stallion until she reached the edge of the former palisade, now in ruins. Her eyes aglow, blood burning with hatred, she pointed her outspread hands at the Scythers in battle before her and called forth her magic. Billowing jets of powerful acid flowed from her hands and shot into the Scythe ranks, liquefying their flesh as they sent up pitiful screams of agony.

Her gaze turned to deeper in the camp, where Annac was circling his horse warily just outside the range of Glock's deadly scythe. Grinning to herself and sensing victory, she muttered, 'Let me warm him up a bit for you first, dear soldier.'

The elf mage raised her hands high into the air and shouted an arcane phrase. Instantly, a blinding, white bolt of lightning forked out of the darkening sky above and straight down - and slammed into Annac.

Utterly vaporized by the blast, the elf did not even have a chance to scream as he was killed instantly by the errant bolt, obviously intended for the hulking orc. His horse let out the only scream as it went down in pieces, its body cleaved in twain by the powerful magic.

For a beat the entire battle came to a sudden halt. Only the distant sound of Balfor and Arehtama still fighting could be heard, their blades ringing ceaselessly off of each other.

Illarin stared in shock and dismay at what she had wrought. Confusion and chaos ripped through the minds of every Eldar as they beheld her tragic mistake.

Sensing the Eldar's error and subsequent indecision, the Scythers let out more savage cries and they began to rout their attackers. Glock laughed and his deep rumble could be heard well above the din of the fight and many Scythers were now taunting their foes, pointing at them and laughing loudly as they staggered.

Deciding quickly, Illarin barked out, 'Call a retreat! Everybody fall back!'

Immediately a corporal called out the order on his horn and shouts for retreat went up across the Eldar ranks as they obeyed their leader.

As she led the retreat away from the camp at a breakneck pace, Illarin mulled over the great losses her forces had suffered, the worst of which was her errant spell that cost her a valuable lieutenant. There was no emotion when she pondered the loss of Annac, only cold calculation. She only hoped the losses that the Scythers suffered would be enough to turn the tides in her favor when they met again in the desert, for although she had failed to flush them out of their camp Illarin knew the Scythers would surely follow her.

Clamors of joy rang out from the weary Scythers, their successful defense breaking the attack as the fortunate turn of events gave them the final push they needed. Many more Eldar went down as the Scythers chased them out of their camp and into the forests.

Arehtama, now also suffering from a few deep gashes and sweating steadily, heard the call for retreat and had to obey. His opponent had proven himself worthy in battle, as the elf had not once been able to trip him to the ground, nor could he get him to fall for even one of his feints.

Balfor spat blood in the elf's face. 'Try and run, coward, I'll cut you down just like you did my men. You'll not leave this camp alive.' Balfor himself was looking worked over; a deep cut above his right eye oozed blood steadily, and his armour stained with sweat and blood.

'Another day, Scythe brute! And then I'll make you eat your words,' Arehtama sniped back. Dexterously, he produced a smoky glass sphere from within his tunic and smashed it to the ground. A surging cloud of caustic black smoke exploded from within the sphere, temporarily blinding Balfor and causing him to cough and blink.

When the vapors had dissipated and Balfor could open his eyes again, the elf rogue was nowhere to be seen - and neither was his cloak. He grunted angrily and pushed his hand to his brow to staunch the flow of blood.

Satisfied that the attack had been thwarted, the big Scyther wrestled with his emotions. He would have that elf's scalp on his belt if it was the last thing he did, but for now there were the wounded to attend to, as well as making plans to head to Drakhiya. There, he was sure they would face the Eldar again, and their shadowy allies in the tower of diamond. The desert orcs had grown tight with the Scythe guild, and only combined with their strength did they stand a chance in putting a stop to the Eldar and this Consortium.

Feeling uncertain for the first time, Balfor hoped that Nattick was able to somehow swing the balance in their favor while he was down there.

Many of the troops were already engaged in the grim task of dragging their dead and wounded into the center of camp. Others were busy trying to salvage what was left of the northern palisade, and some were building a fire, by which the leaders were gathering. Any Eldar survivors were summarily pitched screaming into the camp pond, where Fleeyp's greedy tentacles snatched them and dragged them down into the inky depths to be devoured. Scurvy, the camp's filthy resident cat, emerged from her hiding place beneath the clan hut. She began to play with a dead half-elf's tasseled cloak, whose glassy eyes stared, unmoving, making the corpse seem like some grisly, giant cat trinket.

A few of the Scythe brethren still coughed and panted, Akul's haste spells not yet having completely worn off. As Balfor joined the inner circle of the Scythe gathered around the fire, Akul saw him and his condition, and touched his Scythe mark, healing him.

'Rest up, Balfor, we'll need to move out soon,' the mage said to him.

Balfor nodded curtly and thanked Akul. 'We've lost a lot today but so have they, more than they expected to I'm sure. Now they will have to worry about us chasing them to Drakhiya, and they'll watch their backs for us the whole way down.'

Boki, panting heavily, was bandaging several deep gashes on his legs, presumably from the blades of some of the rangers he had bludgeoned to death. Not one from the original group of rangers had escaped with their life. 'What we do now, Balfor?'

Glock, resting his arms atop his scythe and leaning on it, grunted interestedly. His eyes still burned with bloodlust and he was ready to set his blade swinging again. He stared at Balfor intently, awaiting his decision.

'Akul, scry Nattick for me.' Balfor thought for a moment as the mage began to intone quietly. 'As for us, we need to get to the desert and fast, but we can't go through the woods. Illarin will pick up more elves along the way, for the wood elves hold the wide forests to the south. We survived one ambush but we can't survive two, and not on their turf.' Balfor grinned oddly and said, 'We have to ready the fleet.'

All of the Scythers present except for Boki snickered and nodded in agreement. The ogre wailed in anger and said, 'No, not da boats! Me gonna puke da whole way!'

Balfor laughed loudly and clapped the big ogre on the back. 'Relax, chief, we'll get you some of that fine Raveli rum you like so much and you'll sleep the whole way. Besides, you need the rest, you old fart, and we need your big club down there.'

Boki grunted harshly but didn't protest further, dimly realizing that the Scythe's only chance of making it to Drakhiya untouched and on time was by the sea. He just happened to be the most seasick ogre this side of the Claw Mountains and thus hated being on the water.

Akul finished his chanting and touched his forehead, closing his eyes. In his mind a vision appeared of a great monolith whose very walls seemed to be constructed of smooth diamond. It glittered in the scowling desert sun, its solid walls jealously guarding its secrets. The only window visible was at the very top of the tower, a couple hundred feet above the sandy ground. Clinging to one of the walls and defying gravity was a smallish human, a sword and pack strapped to his back. He was wearing claw-like devices on his hands and feet and slowly working his way to the window, high above the desert floor below. Above the tower, buzzards circled greedily, their faith in Nattick's climb lacking as they waited for him to fall.

'He's about to enter the tower,' Akul said, opening his eyes again as the vision faded, admiration in his voice. 'The little bastard's climbing up the wall and is going to get in!'

The Scythers cheered excitedly at the good news, and Boki did a little dance. 'Nattick gonna crush sommore skulls, yah!' the ogre shouted as he moved, rather suavely for such a large creature.

'Then it's settled. We go by boat and we leave at dawn,' Balfor commanded. 'Everybody ready their troops and gear up. This is a fight to the finish. Akul, teleport back down there, get word to Nattick if you can, and lay low. You'll know it when we get there.'

The mage nodded and headed for his room, while the rest of the clan finished separating the dead from the wounded and began to prepare for the next day's great journey.


	7. A crystal monolith

_Editor's Note: Story copyright Brandon Brooks, all rights reserved._

In the clear blue sky far above the tower, buzzards circled in grim, wide spirals, seemingly sure that the rogue on the tower walls below was soon to be their next meal. A biting desert wind whipped through Nattick's long black hair as he clung to the smooth surface of the diamond tower.

Nearly ten percha above the sandy desert floor, he skillfully made his way up towards a small rectangular opening in the otherwise flush exterior of the monolith. He had been climbing for nearly an hour and the sun's warmth beat intensely upon his backside. Silently he cursed himself for leaving his neck exposed, knowing how badly the skin there would be burnt. The climb was one of the more difficult ones he had ever attempted, and only the bite of his gripclaws kept him from plummeting to his death.

The exterior surface of the tower was at first glance a firm, slippery face of seemingly pure diamond. Nattick had scouted around the entire base of the tower several times, but as to any sign of a concealed entry, there was none. The only defect in the perfectly smooth exterior of the monolith was the lone window several dozen percha above the desert floor. Essaying the hard diamond seemed a futile task, but somehow the tips of the gripclaws Nattick was wearing found purchase and he was able to climb. The glittering demigreaves he was wearing also seemed to augment his ability to scale otherwise unassailable walls. For the thousandth time he thanked himself for exploring that hidden marble crypt all those years ago. It was no small relief that Nattick had also taken a few hits of some of Shanni's famed Arachnoid Elixir before attempting his climb, either, although he fancied he could do without the taste of spider's eggs in his mouth.

Nattick's goal was steadily looming closer, as he reached within a few spans of the bottom of the rectangular opening. He was ambivalent about the weather. There wasn't any kind of breeze up here to cool him, and he wasn't sure how much more punishment he could take from the rising sun. Yet he was also glad there were no gusts to wreak havoc with his ability to stay on the surface of the wall and not become buzzard bait.

Nattick's first impression of the tower was how ominously silent it was. Absolutely no sound was betrayed by its uniform exterior, but now he was coming to the uncomfortable realization that its surface was also unnaturally cold. Every other parapet he had climbed before at this time of day had become almost unbearably hot in the sun, yet the hard diamond facade was refreshingly cool. If it did somehow manage to absorb the heat, it did not do the same with the light, for it was reflected in a blinding fashion. This made the tower seem like a desert mirage if viewed from a distance, but right now it was merely a nuisance to the rogue as he attempted to scale its walls without losing his grip or his vision.

After well over an hour of tedious enterprise, Nattick had reached the window. He now noticed it would only be a small matter to climb to the flat top of the monolith, but he was not interested in a spectacular view of the bleak desert surrounding him. With more than a little effort he patiently waited just beneath the edge of the opening, listening intently for any sound of inhabitants within.

Silence.

The distant shriek of a hungry buzzard from far above.

The sudden harsh whistle of a rare desert breeze blowing across the opening.

And silence reigned anew.

Inhaling slowly and then holding his breath, Nattick reached an arm over the edge and hauled himself in through the window. Quietly he slithered through it and onto the floor, lying on his stomach with palms faced down, like some absurd giant snake. What struck him first were the dust and the smell, for he had to force himself not to sneeze with great difficulty. A strong chemical aroma assaulted his senses, and the odor reminded him of the times he had spent hiding out in the quarry north of Tantallon.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the dimmer light of the chamber he had entered, he could make out a thin haze of dust in the air. It was certainly not as bright in here as the desert just outside the window, but light seemed to somehow emanate from the very walls of the tower. As he inspected them more closely, Nattick could see that the floor and ceiling of this room were made of the same diamond as the exterior of the monolith. In fact, he got the impression that somehow the entire structure was one gigantic gem that had been magically altered and hollowed out into the likeness of a tower. The thought of magic that powerful sent a cold shiver down the rogue's spine, and he slowly got to his feet as he realized he was the only current inhabitant of this room.

The ceiling rose quite high, nearing a couple of percha, and he knew that he was in the highest chamber in the monolith. The air was pleasantly cool, if not a bit stifling from all the dust, and Nattick's eyes fell upon a huge stone altar at the northern end of this round room. The chamber was relatively unadorned, with the large altar and a few stands on either side of it, most of which were covered with various open books and strange-looking metal objects and vessels. There was a simple archway leading out of the south side of the room, and it appeared to open onto a set of smooth diamond steps that spiraled further down into the heart of the tower.

Wanting to unearth more about the mysterious 'Z', Nattick quietly stalked over to inspect the items on the altar and assorted podiums. He noticed with a start that the entire floor was erratically covered with the same off-white dust and he could make out several sets of prints. Yet none of them were his own for his enchanted boots prevented him from leaving any tracks, as well as enabling him to move swiftly.

Each different podium seemed to be some sort of work station, and up close the altar instead had the look of a large wizard's workbench. The instruments were all finely crafted and polished steel, and Nattick could not divine at all what each one's purpose was, although some of them appeared to be used for crushing. There were various bowls and flasks, all containing dusts of different colors, and the rogue's heart stopped when he beheld what was in a large trough on the workbench.

Gems, hundreds of them, in various shapes and sizes and many of them uncut, were piled high in the trough. His knowledge of precious stones told him that these were all genuine, and his greed told him they were worth a small fortune. Immediately he thought of Bort the fence back in Neville, and how he could score big with this stash of gemstones.

Fighting back his avarice, Nattick realized he would never be able to haul that many gems out of the tower. He was also increasingly wary of any traps the resident wizard may have left for unsuspecting thieves, as thus far the going had been almost too easy. Perhaps this spellcaster was arrogant and assumed that no rogue alive could scale his tower walls and infiltrate his domain, and had therefore not bothered to magically ward his equipment. If he had placed wards, they were more carefully concealed than any others Nattick had ever encountered.

He next devoted his attention to the various tomes that were laid open across the altar, and found that they were written in some queer elven dialect. He was unable to translate the passages fully but some were obviously spellbooks, with their various incantations and lists of ingredients, while others appeared to be logs or journals. One thin grey text caught his attention, for it was nestled in amongst several small vessels containing dust from the different jewels.

Carefully, Nattick pried the book from underneath one bowl, spilling a little powder in the process, and when nothing awful happened he realized he had been holding his breath. Leafing through the worn vellum pages, Nattick read what appeared to be a description of different gems and what powers they possessed once enchanted or ground to dust. The mage had spent much time in writing this particular reference, as there were many diagrams and colored drawings illustrating his knowledge.

Some of the sketches showed wondrous sights that could not be of the world the rogue knew: fantastic volcanoes, gigantic glaciers, entire cities in clouds. Others still were hellish and ominous: some depicted gloomy subterranean warrens set deep in the earth, or evil creatures with hideous countenances, or giants that towered over ones that he had seen. There were notations in the back of the book next to an illustration of each gem. There were dozens, including sapphires, diamonds, emeralds, as well as many that Nattick had never before encountered. The rogue marveled at the wealth this enchanter must have accumulated to afford this type of research.

Nattick remembered that something in Illarin's note hinted at banishment or cleansing. Perhaps it was her intent to defeat the Scythe army and bring them to this tower for 'cleansing', or maybe drive them south into the desert, where the sorcerer 'Z' and his accomplices would be lying in wait. He realized that the Feast of the Prophet was the perfect time to stage an ambush of the city as well. Even though the number of guards was always increased for the Feast, the festivities and the tourists always made for a chaos that was impossible to control.

His mind racing, Nattick tried to put it all together, but he simply did not know enough. He knew more than he had when he set out for this tower, but now there were more questions than answers. For openers, he wondered which one of these lands in the book was a picture of this mage's homeland. He was certainly not from the desert region or any of the lands Nattick knew about, for this type of magic was alien to him.

The tower was so silent he had no idea how many truly dwelt here, but he did know that it could not be long before somebody returned. He couldn't immediately decipher much of the one text he had picked up, and he did not have the luxury of time to sit and figure it all out here. Nattick's eyes darted about, trying to discover any more clues as to what lay in store for he and his guild.

Suddenly, across from him and behind the workbench, a dim blue outline blinked to life on the northern wall. It was in the shape of a massive archway, over twenty feet high, and the glow was steadily growing stronger. Was it his imagination, or was the image of the wall inside the glowing parabola fading? Nattick quickly grabbed a handful of gems from within the trough and slung them into his backpack along with the thin tome. As he turned to dash from the room, inspiration gripped him suddenly and he snatched a handful of dust from one of the many shallow bowls strewn about the workbench.

Bolting towards the southern archway and for the staircase beyond, Nattick clenched the fine powder in his hand and felt a strange tingle. A low humming noise filled the room and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he thought he could hear voices growing louder over the humming. He only hoped the voices were coming from behind him and not in front of him!

Nattick burst through the archway and had to skid to a stop before he toppled over the first step and down the spiral staircase. Catching his balance just in time, he edged back from the stairs and sidled

back to the archway, out of view of whomever or whatever came through that portal. Silently he chastised himself for his less-than-graceful exit and for dallying too long at the workbench.

The voices must have been coming from behind him, for the stairwell was silent and he could now make out the lilting voice of a female elf from within, mingled with the deeper bass of a creature that could not be human. Nattick had to swallow his bile, not wanting to spit at the sound of an elf and give away his presence.

'...was saying, Rold, I do not like the sound of it. Either Illarin is growing rash in her overconfidence, or this portends something dreadful. There have been too many mistakes already, we cannot afford any more.' The voice was beautiful, and it also possessed a haughty and commanding tone. The speaker used a strange dialect, one Nattick had not heard before.

'Aye, Zhephani, she underestimated the Scythe, and paid for it. Well, her underling did,' the bass voice chortled, and Nattick could feel the floor vibrate beneath his feet. 'But she will do her part, and bring them to us. Those in this realm know nothing of your magic, or of our might.' A loud thumping noise rattled the air, and Nattick could only surmise that this large creature had just thumped its chest.

'Zhephani. So this was the mysterious 'Z' with whom Illarin had been plotting,' Nattick thought to himself. He gnashed his teeth, for he did not relish the task of facing an elven mage, let alone two of

them. Nattick thought himself absurd for assuming 'Z' to be male. 'Plus, we have Jalen and his... army on our side. We are invincible, my lady,' the deep voice boomed. Something about the way the creature said 'army' made Nattick's blood turn cold.

The elf let out a melodious laugh. 'I just need Illarin to do as much of the dirty work as she can. I would rather not show her too much of my power. That is what Jalen is for. When the time comes, they shall all realize our full potential.' Nattick's ears were highly perceptive, and he could have sworn at that moment that he could hear her grinning evilly, yet he knew this had to be his overly active imagination.

The being called Rold chuckled, creating a sound quite like an earthquake, and Nattick felt a rush of fear. His palms began to sweat, and then he realized he was still clenching the powder tightly in his fist. Ever so quietly, he dribbled the powder into a pouch on his belt, and as he did so he felt the cool tingle of the dust fade away.

There were sounds of stirring now, as if the elf were tinkering with the items at her workbench.

'When is that lackey of hers going to make himself known to us? I thought surely Votishal would have arrived by now, yet not a soul was here to greet us upon our return,' the elf called Zhephani complained.

Nattick smirked slyly to himself.

'The Eldar are slow to act. He probably got distracted at the Festival. He will turn up,' rumbled the hulking Rold.

'I grow tired of this waiting. I have more gems to prepare. See if you can find him.'

The floor suddenly vibrated with the heavy footsteps of Rold, and Nattick breathed in sharply. Holding his breath, he realized the footsteps were not growing in intensity, and that his hiding spot was safe for the moment.

Nattick felt his hair stand on end again, and a sickly green glow emanated from the archway, bathing the stairs in a pale emerald light. There was an odd humming noise, barely audible and low in pitch.

'Time for me to leave,' Nattick thought to himself.

Without a sound, the rogue turned himself around and steadily backed away towards the first step, cognizant of its location. Slowly, more of the chamber he previously occupied came into view, and its walls were bathed in the pale green glow. A dainty figure stood before the bench, her back to him, with long strands of silvery hair trailing halfway down her back. She was the source of the light as her entire body was enveloped in a green radiance, her arms stretched upwards in a 'V'. Her left hand contained what appeared to be a sizable gleaming emerald, and her right palm was opened towards the ceiling. A narrow shaft of sunlight shot from the ceiling into her right hand, and Nattick now noticed that the ceiling was an amber color, as if the sun itself was right above the tower. Zhephani seemed frozen in this position, and the emerald she held steadily grew brighter. He could hear her chanting in an arcane tongue, the tone of her voice now husky.

Now almost at the top of the stairway, Nattick could see what this Rold was. The rogue's heart was in his throat for a beat as he spied the giant for the first time. A towering, muscular beast with alabaster skin stood further back in the chamber and off to the mage's right. Its skin seemed to glitter and reflect the light and looked as though it were constructed from diamonds, and brilliant blue eyes glowed like sapphires as he concentrated on his hands, which were cupped before his face. There was a look of cunning and depravity to his countenance, like some ancient evil statue brought to life. His size easily matched that of the other giants Nattick had encountered before, but the intelligence was novel, and a cause for alarm.

The giant seemed too engrossed in his current task to notice the skulking rogue, and Nattick had now reached the top stair. Turning, the rogue began his careful descent further into the monolith, unsure for the first time whether he would escape alive.


	8. A juggler's balls

_Editor's Note: Story copyright Brandon Brooks, all rights reserved._

A moody silence hung over the guest bedchambers of the Eldar coterie in the Royal Palace of Drakhiya. The four elven men and two elven women that made up Votishal's ambassador corps were still nauseous from the previous night's fare. The Drakhiyan orcs always hated to play the host at this time of year, and only their unbridled avarice for profit kept them civil to the other races - and just barely at that. It did not seem far-fetched to this crew from Duender that their food and drink could have been spiked with demon spider venom or rotten water from the plague city of Sadris, or worse.

What made matters far more disquieting was the mysterious disappearance of their captain - or rather, the manner of his disappearance. It was unsettling that Votishal had not met them for dinner as planned, even though he had been most secretive so far as to the details of their mission. A growing unease began to permeate the group.

'We can only assume that 'Shal has already made for the crystal tower,' a particularly red-faced slender elf said irritably. He was cradling a brass cuspidor in his arms, a thin line of spittle stretching from his chin to the brim of the spittoon. He appeared to be the sickest of the frazzled group of elves.

'And what of his no-show at last night's supper, Faedryc? I think it is the first time I have ever seen him deviate from his plans, and I don't feel at all well about it,' said a concerned looking elf with unkempt long brown hair.

'And I don't feel at all well, Daedryc. Yet we cannot go on worrying ourselves silly just because he missed dinner last night. If anything, we should be glad he's not here sick like the rest of us,' Faedryc said, followed by a violent set of heaves.

Daedryc sighed wearily, and looked away from the sight of his brother vomiting, lest he begin to do so himself.

'If you ask me, I think that half-breed Stobb is behind this,' a red-haired female elf with severe features said. 'I never did trust him. Anything with orcish pig-blood in its veins ought to be roasted on a spit and fed to the dogs!'

The group collectively let out a nauseous groan. 'Please, my dear sweet sister, no more mention of roast meat!' Daedryc said.

'Harissa is right, I bet Stobb is behind this. He, too, is absent, after all,' a tall elf leaning by the doorway offered.

'Well of course he's also absent, Paedryc, you buffoon. He's gone to the tower with 'Shal.' Faedryc said, between retches. 'He'll turn up again soon, you'll see.'

'So what are we to do with ourselves in the meantime then?' the other elven female said, a comely blonde with a lithe figure. 'We cannot just sit idly by, and we dare not leave the city or we'll appear suspicious.'

'I don't know, Ivivis. What say you, Nestor?' Daedryc asked of the fourth male elf, who was squatting by the window and gazing outside, a dour expression upon his face.

The elf turned his dark grey eyes on his companions and contemplated for a moment. He sniffed indifferently, and resumed looking out the window.

'Then it's settled. We shall keep up our profile in the city but look for any clues while we wait,' Daedryc said.

The rest of the elves nodded wearily and began to ready themselves for a long day in the brutal desert.

High above, hidden in the shadows cast by a brilliant morning sun, Mara mouthed a silent curse to herself. The dexterous elf was perched on one of the many frescoes that lined the highest portions of the walls, just below the ceiling. She had taken an immediate liking to the many accessible rooftops and open windows of Drakhiya. She promised herself she would return to the city as soon as she could to plunder its riches, once this business with Nattick was completed.

Nattick. This whole situation smacked of his treachery. Her elven companions below were right; his abrupt departure was incompatible with Votishal's usual behavior. And she had never liked Stobb either, but nobody ever paid much attention to the unfortunate half-orc. Perhaps that was by his design, and now Mara felt a sudden sense of urgency.

Her heart sank as she watched the ragged crew of warriors file out the doorway. Their morale crushed and physically ailing, they would make no headway today, and it would do no good to reveal her presence to them just yet. It was time for action, and she knew just where to start her search for Votishal - for where he was, so was Nattick.

Mara descended from her lofty perch as silently as falling snow, and quickly made her way to the doorway. A female serpentari with a beaten-down look appeared in the archway, apparently here to fulfill her duties as chambermaid. She did not notice the petite elf crouched in the shadows, and Mara easily slipped past her and into the hall outside.

Satisfied she was alone in the wide palace hallway, Mara slinked along the wall towards what smelled like the kitchen. As she came upon a broad arch at the end of the hall, she found she was right, and had no trouble sneaking past the many busy orc cooks. She found herself in a quiet hallway and kept hidden in the abundant shadows cast by the rising morning sun.

As she neared the end of the corridor, she could see a surly, muscular orc standing guard. His red turban gave him away as one of the elite palace guard, and she paused briefly as she pondered her next move. Her nose told her that what she wanted was around the corner, beyond the orc sentinel, but Mara did not feel like slitting any throats this early in the day. Fortunately, this guard must have begun his shift without eating breakfast, for he seemed more intent upon peering into the kitchens than standing guard, his large snout working furiously.

The elf rogue slipped past the hungry orc on his blind side, and found her way into the Caliph's personal harem. Mara found safety in the shadow cast by an incense-burning brazier, and her timing could not have been better - or worse. The concubines were engaged in an animated pillow fight with His Excellency, who held all of their rapt attention. Yet standing like a rigid statue at the other end of the room was Masrur, the Caliph's widely-feared bodyguard. The gigantic orc's beady eyes never stopped searching the shadows for would-be assassins, and his prized falchion Draqisfang always hung at his side. It was no secret that this monster had bloodied his tusks many times in battle. He had a terrifying combination of brute strength and lightning dexterity, and as yet no one was his match in battle. Mara did not feel like trying to be the first in that category.

She needed a disguise for where she was going, and the perfect one lie tantalizingly outside her reach, yet within Masrur's field of vision. Hoping her good fortune would strike twice, she decided to wait a few beats rather than attempt to palm the silk harem pants and veil lying a few feet in front of her on a divan.

Masrur's piggy eyes narrowed slightly as they fixed upon the shadows where Mara was hiding. She felt her heart stop and her throat clench under his suspicious gaze, certain she had been spotted. The elf didn't move a muscle and remained as taut as the iron brazier in front of her, mentally preparing for a quick getaway.

Just then the auspicious rogue caught another break, as a stray pillow snagged one of the bodyguard's tusks and was gutted open, sending small white feathers flying in a cloudburst. Angrily, the orc swatted feathers away from his face and sidestepped the flurry, his hand on Draqisfang's hilt and the blade half out of its sheath. Yet when he focused on the brazier in the far corner of the room, he did not see anything suspicious, nor did he notice the now-missing pants and veil.

By now, Mara was well outside, having snuck back through the kitchens and out the rear of the palace. She made her way through a few back alleys to the outside of a brothel off the Street of Pigs. The streets were choked with patrons and merchants already, and where there weren't people there were stalls and effigies and crude kiosks, all in place in time for the Feast.

Quickly, she donned the billowy silk pants and veil, stashing her other pants behind the flap of a vacant booth that was apparently used for selling fish. Mara slipped into the back entrance of the brothel, and found herself in a quiet hallway with many closed doors. She could hear the din of the raucous crowd in the taverna to the front of the building, and at present she was the only one in this passageway.

Her quarry was the wily Ishtaq, and although everybody thought he would not be caught dead inside of Drakhiya's walls, Mara knew him better than most. She knew his addiction to the affections of orcish wenches, and nowhere in the land were there better orcish wenches than in Drakhiya. And when it came to sneaking around, there were few who were better at that game than Ishtaq. Mara had a hunch he could be found inside the city walls at Feast time, when it would be easiest to slip in and out of the gates without notice.

Not wanting to heave open any doors and surprise unsuspecting guests (unless she had to), the disguised elf headed down the hall to the foyer of the brothel. Here, eager johns fawned lustily over the assortment of harlots that paraded through the beaded archways at either end of the room. A filthy red carpet covered the floor and continued up a set of darkened stairs, no doubt leading to other rooms above. A couple of orc prostitutes leaned over the railing of the stairs, exposing themselves and grinning naughtily as they tried to entice a couple of young loutish humans to follow them upstairs.

Many other strumpets reposed on benches lining the walls, some with their tongues in the ears of their current customers, others looking bored while they waited for their next trick. A smoky haze filled the air as many of the men were smoking Salamander cigars or Smashterfield cigarettes, and Mara made a face at the acrid smell and the lurid sights she beheld.

The elf clad in harem pants turned many heads as she appeared from the dark corridor, for though there were many races of harlot here she was the only one with pointed ears and fair skin. Swatting away several attempts to grope her, Mara made her way through the crowded foyer, looking for any sign of the Caliph's nemesis. She knew that Ishtaq would be disguised and that even her expert eyes would have difficulty in spotting him, but she had to find him. Few had their ears to the ground more skillfully than Ishtaq, so if anybody knew anything of Votishal or Nattick it would be him. The itinerant rogue also owed her money, and she would not let him escape her this time as he had so many times in the past.

Out of the corner of her eye, something about one particular man's movement drew her attention to him. A tall man wearing white desert robes and a mask painted like the face of a swamp monkey was just starting to ascend the stairs, his arm around an unusually green-skinned female orc. Masks were not uncommon in brothels, especially during Festival time, for many revelers wore them. Yet this man had an oddly familiar limp. The kind of limp given out by the Caliph for being caught red-handed with his personal harem!

Knowing she had found her prey, Mara wormed her way through the lusty crowd towards the staircase, having to endure being pinched on the bottom more than a few times. The lithe elf slipped underneath Ishtaq's free arm, drawing a cold stare from the orcish wench at his other side.

'Well hey, what have we here!' Ishtaq blurted out gleefully.

'Perfect. He's a drunken lummox,' Mara thought to herself. Swallowing her pride, she beamed up at the grinning visage of the monkey mask. 'If it please you, sir, I could give you better company than your piggy little friend there.'

'Hey! This one's mine, sweetie, go find your own man!' the orc prostitute snarled in protest.

Mara could feel Ishtaq's body suddenly tense as he lurched to a stop on the stairs. Sensing his recognition of her, she continued to smile innocently at him. She shot a hand under his robe, grabbing his testicles in a grip like iron.

'Unh! Umm... listen, Shasha, maybe you better... find someone else to... keep you company today. I think I... have my hands... full... with this little elf right here,' Ishtaq blurted out, not daring to make any sudden movements.

The orc called Shasha made a pouty face, but got a sly glint in her eyes as the trapped man pressed some gold coins into her palm. Crying mock tears, she bolted back down the staircase and out of sight, no doubt in pursuit of her next trick.

'Well, well, my little Swamp Monkey. It has been too long since we last... shook hands.' With this last phrase, Mara briefly squeezed, making Ishtaq yelp and sound every bit like a monkey as well. 'Shall we retire to one of the many rooms upstairs? We have lots of catching up to do.'

'Curse you, Mara! How did you find me here? Aghh! Steady on now...' The elf glared silently up at him, her eyes like slits behind her veil, her grip tightening with his complaints.

'Did the Caliph send you?' Ishtaq hissed at her, turning to look over both shoulders as he spoke. 'Please, just let go of me!'

'Tsk, tsk. No, my feral friend, he did not. But I will make you wish for him instead, if you do not give me what I want. Let's go,' the ruthless elf said, walking up the stairs and not releasing her solid grip.

Having little choice, Ishtaq stumbled clumsily after her, emitting high-pitched little 'Ah!' sounds the entire way up the stairs and down the hall as Mara led him by his genitalia. Normally the sight of a grown man in a monkey mask speaking so and being led around in such a manner would have turned more than a few heads, but in a brothel it was merely regarded as typical fare, so nobody they passed gave them a second glance.

Finding an unoccupied room, Mara turned to face Ishtaq and led him painfully into the crowded chamber.

'Close the door,' she commanded. Ishtaq pushed the door shut behind him, and in a flash Mara released her grip and was at the juggler's throat with a sharp blade. Her green eyes glinted dangerously through the veil, and for a moment Ishtaq's blood went cold. She had knocked his mask off in the process of putting her knife to his neck. He met her gaze without wavering, but he licked his lips nervously. Ruefully, he wished he wasn't so drunk.

'A trade party from Duender led by an Eldar named Votishal is here in town on official business. Now he's gone missing and I want to know why. Talk to me,' the elf demanded, pressing her dagger into Ishtaq's throat.

'Listen Mara... I know I owe you from that poker game, but you have to realize something. I'm not even supposed to be here! I-'

'I don't want your excuses, Ishtaq! I don't have time for any games. Now tell me what I want to know.' She stared intently at him, somehow managing to look threatening in her ridiculous courtesan costume.

The man said nothing, his eyes darting back and forth. He obviously knew something, and was going to try and get out of it. With her free hand, she reached down to grab his crotch again.

'Wait!' Ishtaq cried out. 'All right, look. Put the knife down, you don't need to harass me like this. I'll tell you what little I know.'

'Hah!' Mara laughed. She hesitated, studying him shrewdly for a moment. 'You better have something good, Ishtaq! You still owe me money, and all I have to do is scream for the guards and you'll be taken right back to the Caliph!'

'Mara,' he said with feigned indignation, 'you couldn't do that to an old poker buddy now, could you? Besides, get rid of me and you lose everything I know. And that's a lot, heh.' Ishtaq was grinning at her, and he coyly flipped one of her throwing knives up in the air with his right hand.

'Give me that!' she shouted, but he snatched out of the air before she could get to it. Just as quickly, he had the point of it pressed to her neck, and his grin was replaced by a stern look.

'Stalemate, Mara. Now let's talk this out like a couple of sensible rogues, eh?' Ishtaq's black eyes had taken on the same cold edge Mara's own gaze held. Even while drunk, the crafty juggler still had some of the quickest hands around, and he had somehow managed to pick her pockets.

Her face twisted in frustration, Mara just stared at him in disbelief. Ishtaq suddenly burst into laughter, and simultaneously they both lowered the daggers from each other's necks. Mara couldn't help but laugh with him, and for a beat they just stood there chuckling.

In a flash, both rogues held their knives to each other's throats again, each warily staring at the other and neither one laughing. Then they both cackled again and backed away from each other. Mara sheathed her blade, and Ishtaq tossed her the throwing knife, which she caught by the handle in front of her. She gave him a hard look, and he just smirked back at her.

They wandered further into the cramped room, relaxing briefly now that they were out of sight of anyone else. Mara leaned by the window at the far end of the room, careful not to turn her back on the nefarious juggler. Ishtaq loitered by the doorway, alternately casing the room and furtively glancing towards the elf.

Ishtaq caught a glimpse of the black-bladed scimitar that hung from her side. He recognized it immediately as the prized sword Mara had fished out of some forgotten tomb a few years back. The elf rogue was never separated from her magical blade, and the rumor was that wounds from its sting took months to heal. He did not care to personally put that theory to the test.

'I see Elbelle made the trip, as usual,' Ishtaq said, nodding towards the scimitar at Mara's side.

She smirked at him. 'Be glad I didn't decide to give him a taste of you. You might be doing more than grabbing your crotch by now.'

Ishtaq realized he had been rubbing the sore spot between his legs, wishing for a chunk of ice. He narrowed his eyes at her. 'I know I owe you money, but did you have to shake hands in that way? And scare off my date?'

'Date?!' Mara cried out in surprise. 'From the looks of her, she was going to do more harm to you than I ever could. And what were you thinking, Ishtaq, coming back into this city for a piece of ass?

Certainly those orcs are good, but they can't be that good.'

He grinned evilly and winked at her. 'Don't knock it until you've tried it, sister.'

She shuddered. 'I'll pass, thank you. Their steam baths are more than enough for my tastes.' She could not help but smirk back at the lecherous rogue. 'But back to our business.'

Ishtaq nodded. He studied Mara for a moment. 'Yes, this business with Votishal. I never knew the Eldar by name, but if you are looking for who I think you're looking for, then you are too late. Word has it a certain elven trade ambassador was carved up and served to his own party late last night.'

'What?!' Mara cried in disbelief, her jaw hanging open. 'Was it-?'

'Yes. It was Nattick. He's the only one capable of such a thing, and you know there is no love lost between the Eldar and Scythe.'

Angrily, the elf kicked over a shoddy wooden table, shattering one of its legs in the process. 'That bastard! How did he do this so quickly? I hardly let Votishal out of my sight. Are you sure he's dead?'

Ishtaq raised an eyebrow. 'Hardly let him out of your sight? That's your problem right there. You know about Nattick. He strikes the moment you let your guard down. Lucky he didn't take you out in the process.'

Mara glared angrily at him. 'I'll have my revenge. Where is he now?' Her hand moved to tightly grip the pommel of her black-bladed scimitar.

Ishtaq gaped at her. 'You're asking me? I hear lots of things, Mara, but of Nattick's comings and goings I know nothing. I'm not sure anyone does.'

She stared at him suspiciously.

Ishtaq spread his arms wide. 'I tell the truth, Mara. May as well try and track an ant in this desert than find him. I cannot help you there.'

Mara snorted angrily, realizing he wasn't lying for once. But she had an idea where to find the scurrilous rogue. 'I must be off, then. A pleasure, as always, Ishtaq. Don't get killed before I find you again. I want my gold back.' She was already halfway out the window, looking up and down, her veil discarded on the floor behind her.

Ishtaq chuckled quietly. 'Oh, Mara. If you do manage to find Nattick then I know I can keep my gold, for I'll never see you again.' His smile faded as he spoke, replaced by a serious look.

Mara raised an eyebrow. 'Is that concern I see in your eyes, Ishtaq? Why, I never knew you cared!' She laughed then, as she descended down a drainpipe into the alley below.


End file.
